


Those The Dragons Heed

by astrokath



Category: Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-25
Updated: 2011-11-18
Packaged: 2017-10-24 23:01:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 34,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrokath/pseuds/astrokath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do dragons look for in their riders? Martonal thought he knew the answer, or at least part of it - whatever it was, it was something he lacked...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

As the three dragons appeared from _between_ , high above the fields of Green Lake Hold, Martonal was already staring upwards into the pale sky, one hand shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun.

Aside from water breaks, this was the first time he'd stopped working all morning. Not that he'd had much choice—the new vegetables for his family cothold's kitchen garden wouldn't plant themselves, after all, and there was a lot more work to be done if his team of young siblings and cousins were to finish all their chores before evening. He could barely remember when they'd last had a proper rest-day at all. Certainly not since Nickor, the Journeyman Harper from South Telgar, had last visited Green Lake Hold to check on the children's education. They hadn't even had a decent Gather since the last trader caravan passed through earlier in the spring, but with things as they were all across Pern, that was hardly surprising. Too many people had been left half crippled by the plague seven turns back and able bodies were at a premium, especially with so many helpless mouths to feed. If you could walk, you worked; that was the law of Green Lake Hold.

Some things _were_ different elsewhere. Nickor had told him that a few months back. In the first turn after the plague, some Holders had chosen to turn out their crippled, carting them to the borders of their Holds and leaving them there, Holdless and helpless. News of the crime had travelled slowly, with the Weyrs still holding themselves under quarantine, but even once the Conclave of Lords Holder had ruled against it the practise still continued in some out of the way spots. As distant as it was from South Telgar, Martonal was glad that Green Lake wasn't one of _those_ Holds; his father and three of his siblings were amongst the Hold's crippled. But Holder Garrent was a good man, as well as one who worked harder than anyone else. _'No-one starves before I do,'_ he'd once said, according to Martonal's father. Oh, they'd had some lean winters on half rations, that was for sure, but the Hold would survive and prosper again eventually. All the more reason to get today's seedlings safely in the ground and well watered before they wilted in the hot sun.

As the oldest lad in his team Martonal had been doing the hardest work, shovelling over the dark, clay-rich earth that had held the turn's first roots until the last of them had been harvested just last month. One of his cousins followed him with her rake, and behind her came the younger kids: pushing wheelbarrows, transplanting the seedlings, and watering them from buckets hauled up from the lake. With so much to do, he didn't have time to pause for breath very often, but some sixth sense had made him straighten his back, lean on his shovel and gaze into the sky at just the right time.

It had happened just like that the last time dragons had come on Search, and the time before.

Sighing, Martonal tore his attention away from the three dark silhouettes flying overhead and back to the stiffened soil in front of him. He set to work with his shovel and had turned over a whole foot of ground before the first shrieks from the kids behind him broke the hot day's silence. Well, they were entitled to a bit of excitement, he supposed. As for himself, he'd learned better.

"Martonal?"

Wedging his shovel firmly into the ground with his foot, Martonal turned round to hear what his cousin Sildea wanted. "Yeah?"

She shrugged apologetically, and gestured at the eager faces glued to the sky behind her. "Think we should head on down to the Hold, or wait to see if they ring the bell for us? It's nearly lunchtime anyway."

Smiling sadly, Martonal shook his head and weighed up his options. They really _should_ stay out here and finish the job. And the dragons might not even be on Search. _That_ would get them all in trouble, if they raced back to the Hold for no cause at all! On the other hand, there were only five plants left in the emptiest of the three barrows, and he doubted the kids would be gentle enough with the rest of them if he kept them out here waiting. "I dunno…" He wiped a line of sweat from his cheek, and stared over the garden's low wall at the path that led to the Hold. The dragons would be nearly there, and when they landed their riders would be offered cool drinks and shade. If they _were_ on Search… well, even if Martonal couldn't bring himself to get excited about that idea any more, a break in the shade during the heat of the day was a very tempting thought indeed. "Oh, why not? Let's get that barrow emptied first, and then head down. I'll make up some excuse to your Da if we're not wanted."

Sildea grinned broadly, her own excitement clearly showing. There hadn't been a queen egg at either Igen or Telgar Weyr for many turns now, but you never knew when one would turn up, especially in an Interval. "Thanks, Mar."

He left her to spread the news to the other kids, and pulled his shovel out of the ground again. It'd still be a while before they'd finish, and even though he didn't really need to keep digging, the more he did now, the less there'd be for him to do later.

Besides, it kept his mind off the dragons.

* * *

He'd been barely twelve turns old the first time dragons had come on Search.

It had been the middle of winter: one of the hard, hungry winters two and a half turns after the plague had ended. The lads from the Hold and its three outlying cotholds had been assembled in the snow-covered courtyard in front of an enormous green dragon. Well, it had seemed enormous at the time. After what had seemed like hours but had probably only been a few minutes, the dragonrider, a tall man with bright orange hair, had stepped away from his dragon's side and walked straight towards one of Garrent's sons. No-one expected the rider to Search more than one lad from the Hold, least of all Martonal, and he might have begrudged his friend's luck if he'd had the time to do so. But no sooner had the dragonrider invited Yorrent to step forward than he was pacing briskly down the line towards where Martonal was standing. "You too," he'd said softly, gesturing for Martonal to join his friend. Martonal had been so elated, he hadn't realised that the rider had Searched one of the fish-hold boys as well until all three of them were being helped up onto the dragon's back.

Looking back, as happy as he, Yorrent and Drindaron had been to be found worthy, he suspected Holder Garrent had been just as pleased to see them leave for Telgar Weyr with the dragonriders. Three less mouths to feed, after all, even if one of them _was_ his own son. But there'd been a full forty candidates for the eighteen eggs on the sands, most of them below the age of fifteen, and, of the three of them, only Drindaron had Impressed.

Poor Yorrent had had even worse luck than Martonal. His legs still weakened from the plague, he hadn't been able to move fast enough to avoid a confused blue hatchling as it stumbled towards its soon-to-be rider. Martonal had been on the other side of the hatching grounds at the time—they'd decided to spread out to maximise their chances for bringing glory to their Hold—but had seen the whole thing. From a distance, the wound in his friend's thigh hadn't looked too bad, and as the Healers had reached him almost straight away. Martonal had waited until the last three dragonets had Impressed before rushing over to see him. But by the time he'd got there, Yorrent was unconscious, a dark pool of his own blood slowly seeping into the sands around him. He'd died right there on the sands a few minutes later, the Healers helpless in the face of a badly torn artery.

Martonal had returned to Green Lake the following morning, alone.


	2. Chapter 2

The small group of youngsters had made it barely half way down the dusty path that led from the Cothold to the lakeside cliff which held the main Hold when the bell in the fire heights began to ring. Without a second thought, the younger children broke into a run, racing to see which of them would be first to reach the Hold's arched gateway and the waiting dragons in the courtyard beyond. Sildea turned to flash a quick grin at Martonal, then broke out into a series of coughs as the rising dust cloud left by the departing youngsters reached her face. Martonal waited for his cousin to catch her breath, his lips quirked into a commiserating smile, and silently thanked his luck for having grown taller than her at last.

"Wish I'd not told them to be so careful with the water earlier," she muttered as they started walking again. "Sharding path could do with a good wetting."

Martonal laughed. "We'll have thunder tomorrow, mark my words."

"Ha. Not that _you'll_ be around to see it."

Fighting the sudden rising chill in his belly, Martonal shook his head. He'd hoped there wouldn't be another Search so soon, not now that they were well into the Interval. He'd hoped he'd be too old to even be considered. Oh, there was a chance the dragons weren't on Search at all, but why else would they come to the Hold? Picking up his pace, he let his longer legs build a bit of distance between them. Sildea would catch up soon enough, none the wiser, and nice enough not to push him any further on the subject. She'd just think he was being modest, not bragging about his chances of being Searched for a third time, but eager all the same to reach the dragons as soon as he could.

Of course she'd think that. They all did. But it Martonal was sure of anything at all in life, it was that no dragon would ever choose him on Search again.

* * *

He still had nightmares about that Hatching, every now and then. The first one had found him the very night he'd been returned from Igen Weyr, and he'd woken the entire cothold with his screams. Well, his father had told him that he'd done that later the next day, when he finally came round from the Fellis they'd given him, but Martonal had no memory of it himself. Apparently he'd been wild, inconsolable, lashing out at anyone who came close. Screaming about the blue who had to stop, who mustn't do that. Desperately begging someone not to die, to stay with him. But it was alright, his father explained, they understood. It was only natural for that second hatching to bring back memories of the first, of all those traumatic scenes that he'd blocked away for well over a turn. And it was healthy for that to happen, so the healers said. It was best to grieve for Yorrent as much as he needed to, rather than keeping the pain locked away where it would fester. Sometimes you couldn't save the ones you loved, and just had to let them go. They'd learned that time and time again in the turns after the plague.

Martonal had nodded and promised to try, all the while hating himself for his cowardice. And perhaps that was why it had all happened? But whatever the reason, he couldn't bear to tell his father that it wasn't the Telgar Hatching that had woken him screaming at all.

He still had the nightmares every now and then, but he'd learned to bear them silently after the first.

* * *

Not normally so busy in the heat of the day, Green Lake Hold's paved courtyard would have seemed crowded even without the presence of the green and blue dragons crouched beside the flood defences that marked the boundary between the courtyard and the lake shore. Martonal hesitated for a moment in the arched entrance, making the most of the shadows as he tried to figure out how best to stay unnoticed for as long as he could. Not by staying put, that was for sure! The rest of the Hold's youngsters had gathered on the flood-wall to gawp at the dragons, and Sildea was already on her way to join them, but that wouldn't do either. Martonal decided to make himself useful instead. Smiling to himself, he started to walk across the courtyard, his path taking him parallel to the cliff. If he was right, he'd not make it half-way acro—

"Martonal! Come here a minute, boy"

Swallowing his smile, he sighed extravagantly and kicked at the dirt, then ambled in apparent reluctance towards the scatterbrained cook. Lexa could always be relied upon to have more chores than people to do them!

Lexa smiled kindly at him. "Now don't look so downhearted, Martonal, I won't keep you for long and you're the perfect choice really because I know you won't dawdle like some of these layabouts, not with dragons here."

He nodded, and listened absently as Lexa rambled on, her eyes darting this way and that as she kept careful watch on the drudges laying tables. She'd get to whatever chore she had for him eventually.

"…but they _will_ just turn up without any warning, and it doesn't matter that they'll be happy with whatever I feed them, Faranth knows they eat from the tithes we send 'em, but Holder Garrent wants our best on show, and that means I've sent half the stuff I'd had brought up back down again, and it's still not good enough. And as if the brandied redfruit would be suitable at this time of day, I ask you! But we can hardly offer dragonriders the good wine and let everyone else stand around parched, and now that Garrent's had the bell rung the whole fishhold will turn up soon, and one barrel of ale _really_ won't..."

Martonal took a risk, and interrupted her. "You want me to fetch another keg?"

"Yes dear, and quickly, but that goes without saying with dragons here, doesn't it?" Lexa squinted at the dragons, briefly taking her eyes off her small workforce. "Why, I remember… Billit, no, no, how many times do I have to tell you no?"

Making his escape as the cook turned to deal with the hapless Billit, Martonal jogged into the Hold proper. The ale kegs were kept in the storage rooms deep in the cliff behind the kitchens, where it was always nice and cool. It'd be easy enough to pass the keg onto one of the drudges heading back outside, and then he could stay useful in the Hold for as long as he wanted, safely out of sight. For a while, his plan seemed to be working. He'd just handed the keg over to one of the drudges – Billit, in fact – and was heading back towards the kitchens when Sildea ran up breathlessly beside him.

"Oh Martonal, I've been looking for you everywhere!"

"Lexa had chores," he explained.

Sildea pulled him to one side, away from the bustle of workers, and rolled her eyes. "Lexa _always_ has chores. Come on, we learned how to avoid her turns ago! Please, Mar? It's Igen Weyr, and I overheard the bronzerider talking to Holder Garrent, and they mentioned your name!"

Martonal swallowed uncomfortably and shook his head. What were they saying about him? "That doesn't mean anything, Sil."

"It means they remember you! And this time there's a queen egg! _A queen egg!_ "

"Seriously? So…"

"Martonal, when've I ever asked you for _anything_? Couldn't you introduce me? Please?" She bit her lips and blushed, as if she couldn't quite believe the effrontery of what she was proposing.

If he thought he'd be doing her any favours at all, he might have considered agreeing with her, but the whole idea was laughable. Going up to the bronzerider, saying _Hello there sir, you remember me, don't you? Well here's my cousin Sildea, and she'd make just as good a rider as they once thought I would._ Yeah, that'd go down about as well as a stray Thread in Lexa's kitchen. Or the truth of what had happened at Igen in Garrent's ears. Had the bronzerider told him yet, or not? He shook his head, and scrabbled for a decent excuse. "Sil, it's the dragon you want to impress, not the rider!"

"Well, you can't introduce me to the dragon!"

Couldn't he? He could certainly try, and maybe that wasn't the only thing he could do...


	3. Chapter 3

"Come on." His mind made up, Martonal tugged at his cousin's sleeve, and she followed him towards the Hold's doorway. Dragons didn't _speak_ to people other than their riders, not unless there was something special about the person or urgent that the dragon had to say… but he'd learned at Telgar Weyr that sometimes they did _listen_. If he could approach one of the dragons, preferably the bronze – they were smarter, everyone said – then maybe he could explain his problem, that he didn't want to bring shame on the Hold when he wasn't Searched. He doubted Garrent would be all that angry, but he'd certainly _expect_ him to be Searched, and would probably say as much, too. Martonal couldn't bear the thought of embarrassing his Holder that way, not if he could do something about it. The only alternative was staying out of sight completely and hoping his absence got overlooked. The dragon might not hear a word he said, but he might pass it on to his rider. And even if it didn't work, he could at least try and get Sildea noticed without making it too obvious!

He peered out into the courtyard again. There was Holder Garrent, chatting amiably with one of the riders beyond the green dragon, and not looking the least bit disappointed or embarrassed. That was a good sign! The other two riders were talking to each other, but where was the third dragon, the bronze? Martonal closed his eyes, and pictured how the Hold had looked as they'd approached. The riders had all been in the courtyard when he'd arrived, but what about the fireheights? Had one of the dragons gone to catch the sun up there? Yes, Martonal thought he had.

"Ah, there you are, boy!"

Martonal quickly opened his eyes at the sound of Lexa's voice, and groaned. She was striding towards them with a tray in her hands and a conspiratorial gleam in her eyes.

"A favour for me means a favour for you," she said. "Take these drinks over to the Holder and the dragonriders would you? There's a good lad."

Nodding reluctantly, he realised he had no way out. Lexa's tables were all set up, the drudges dismissed, and she was probably planning to stand there and watch him walk all the way across the courtyard. He took the tray from her hands with a word of thanks, and gestured with his head for Sildea to follow. "Sildea can help me serve, can't she."

He hurried off without waiting for an answer, conscious of his cousin keeping pace beside him. Maybe there was still a chance he could get out of this, and give Sildea her wish at the same time. The riders and Holder Garrent were on the move, and, just as he'd hoped, they were soon hidden from sight of the main Hold behind the bulk of the blue dragon. Perfect. Martonal waited until he and Sildea were similarly obscured, then thrust the tray into her hands and dropped into a crouch on the ground. "Stone in my shoe, Sil," he said as she stared at him in confusion. "You go on. I'll catch up." He winked, giving her just the right impression of his intent, and her face broke into a wide grin of excitement.

"Thanks Mar!"

"Don't mention it."

As his cousin walked on, he rose, and jogged in the opposite direction towards the side gate to the lake. Why, if he'd done what Lexa wanted there'd have been no avoiding the topic of him being Searched! But his cousin would keep them distracted with pleasantries, at least until the dragons began their inspection, and so long as he was out of sight by then it was probably the best he could do. As usual, the gate was propped open with one of the sandbags left over from the spring floods. Martonal darted through the gateway and cut across the curve of the lake shore towards the jetty. With everyone else milling around the Hold and its courtyard, the Lake was probably the best place he could choose for staying out of the way. Green Lake was shallow at the best of times, but this season the waters were even lower than normal. He had to pick his way carefully over the rounded stones that lined the lake bed, but at least their algae coating was brown and crusty rather than green and slippery for once. Every now and then he stopped, and stooped to pick up one of the smaller, flatter stones, perfect for skimming, which he slipped them into his pockets.

The jetty itself was made of stone; wood would have been no good during a Pass, and was more useful for making boats and furniture besides. It extended five or six dragonlengths into the lake from the usual waterline, with two sets of steps leading down to the water, one at the far end and the other half way along. He climbed the steps at the halfway mark – which were well clear of the lake's edge – walked along the jetty, and then climbed down the steps at the end. The bottom step was still a few handspans above the lake's surface; Martonal pulled off his shoes, rolled up his trouser legs and slumped down onto the step, letting his legs dangle into the cool water. Surely no-one would find him out here?

The boy leaned back against the stone and closed his eyes, and tried not to notice the flickering glare of reflected sunlight on his eyelids. Dragonriders wouldn't spend long in talk, not if they had other Holds and Cotholds to visit before the day was out. They'd have had their refreshments by now, and would be waiting for the boys to line up for the Search. Bronzes Searched the girls, he'd been told, but the bronze was still up on the heights and the blue and green in the courtyard, so it'd be the boys they'd look at first. All he had to do was wait it out. Hide from it. No point changing the pattern of the last three turns, was there?

Eyes still closed, Martonal felt in his pocket for a suitable stone, and with a well practised flick of his wrist send it spinning bitterly towards the water. It was quiet enough to count the diminishing splashes by sound. One… two… three… four-five-six. Not too bad, but he'd done much better in the past. He tried again, and listened closely, his ears straining to catch the seventh and eighth bounces… which were suddenly lost in the loud crash of _something_ much, much larger hitting the water.

Half expecting to be drenched by a wave, he cautiously opened one eye. Oh. It was one of the dragons, the bronze from the fireheights, flown down for a swim. Dragons liked water, he knew. It had been quite a shock, at his first hatching at Telgar Weyr, to see dragons of all ages and colours cavorting in the Weyr's lake as if they were little kids playing games. This one was no exception, and as he watched the dragon he felt his mood lighten. The dragon ducked his head under the water and flexed his back, sending waves of water lapping onto his outstretched wings, much like a wherry cleaning its feathers in the shallows. Sunlight reflected from the water glistened on the underside of his broad wings and neck, adding a shimmer of gold to his iridescent bronze hide, except where a paler line stood out against the flesh of the dragon's neck. Martonal was no longer at all surprised that Sildea had heard the bronzerider mention him by name; this was the very dragon that had brought him back from the Igen hatching. The scar was a long-healed Threadscore from the last Pass. B'dril had told him and the other candidates all about it before the hatching, how they'd got it in the last Fall of the Pass while still weyrlings, breaking every rule there was just to fight just once. _That_ was the kind of rider a bronze dragon looked for, not a cowardly boy who couldn't even face up to his own inadequacy. Martonal watched until the dragon slowly settled into a restful float, and all the waves cast up by his activity had ebbed away into mere ripples, then reached into his pocket for another stone.

Back in the courtyard, the boys would be lining up in a row, then waiting while the two dragons looked them over. It was better this way, wasn't it? He flicked the stone towards the shimmering water, well away from the bronze dragon, and counted the skips before fumbling for another. The last two times Searchriders had come to Green Lake, the riders had left the choosing to their dragons, only calling a lad forward once a decision had been made. But he'd talked to other candidates at the Weyr, and had learned that it didn't always work that way.

Martonal pulled out another stone, and wondered how today's Search would go. Some riders liked to talk to the potential candidates first, to give their dragons a chance to focus more clearly on each individual in turn, while others kept their dragon's choice close to their chests until after they'd discussed the potential candidates with the local Holder. Not that it mattered which way they were Searching today, because he wasn't there to embarrass the Hold when they failed to choose him. Holder Garrent was far less likely to make an issue of it under those circumsatnces. Every candidate Searched was an honour for the Hold, true, but if a hard-working boy was foolish enough to miss his chance, well, it was his loss and the Hold's gain. Martonal grinned at the thought. Oh, he'd get teased for this, for sure, but at least he was doing his duty to Hold _and_ Weyr as well as he could!

He flung another stone at the water, and noticed for the first time that the bronze dragon's head was tracking every bounce. Probably worried he might send one too close! As Martonal wondered whether he ought to keep skimming them or not, the bronze turned his head to look at him, his eyes whirling an inscrutable green-blue. Maybe he just liked to watch? Cautiously, the boy reached into his pocket for what turned out to be his last stone, and turned it over in his hand silently. The dragon was still watching him. Martonal drew his arm back to make the throw, and suddenly became conscious of the sound of booted footsteps on the jetty behind him. Dropping the stone onto the steps, he twisted his head round to see who was approaching.

It was the bronzerider, B'dril.


	4. Chapter 4

Martonal hunched down into the steps, half-heartedly hoping the rider hadn't seen him and would go away. But the footsteps continued towards him steadily, and soon the rider was sitting on the steps beside him, his legs folded to keep his boots clear of the water.

"Martonal, isn't it?" B'dril said absently.

He didn't want to look round, but dragonmen deserved respect. "Yes sir."

The bronzerider was staring out at his dragon floating happily on the lake, an expression of relaxed tenderness on his face. Martonal felt his face flush in a rush of envy and shame, and embarrassment at sharing such a private moment. What would it be like, to have a dragon want you so much? What did it take, and what crucial part of him was missing? He dropped his eyes, and looked away.

Eventually, the bronzerider sighed, and addressed him again. "Holder Garrent was wondering where you'd got to. He wasn't too pleased with your cousin taking your place, you know."

Martonal winced. "She'd have more chance on the sands than I would."

"Perhaps. Neither Callinth nor the others have had a chance to have a good look at her yet though. That's why you disappeared, is it, to give her a chance to get noticed?"

He nodded once, then decided it was worth giving an honest answer. "Partly."

In the growing silence, B'dril picked up Martonal's abandoned stone, and skipped it across the water. "I used to do this all the time at the Weyr Lake when we were Weyrlings. Callinth loved watching the ripples, and he's enjoyed watching yours." The expanding wavelets slowly faded under the watchful gaze of man, boy and dragon, and only when they'd faded completely did the bronzerider speak again. "You never told them, did you?"

Martonal shook his head. After the first few weeks had passed, it had just got harder and harder to even think about it, let alone _talk_ to anyone about it. It wasn't exactly something you could drop into a casual conversation. _Oh yeah, I didn't just fail to Impress, I watched a dragon die in horrible distress because I wasn't even halfway good enough for him. The Search dragons were wrong about me, but that little blue wasn't._ _He knew. And now all the other dragons do too, even if no-one in the Hold does._ If he could have gone back in time, told his younger self to hide away just like he'd done today, why, then that unnamed dragon might have lived! The Hold hadn't been able to afford the loss of more than one boy that summer, and Holder Garrent had announced that fact to the small crowd that had assembled to watch the Search even before the boys had lined up in front of the dragons. If he hadn't been there…

He felt a firm hand rest on his shoulder, and the rider spoke again.

"Can't say I blame you, lad. It was a bad day, that one. Never should have happened. Still, life goes on, and we've a new clutch to worry about today. Spellianth and Negth are starting the Search. I told Holder Garrent not to be concerned by your absence, that Callinth was keeping an eye on you."

Martonal nodded his understanding. "Have they chosen anyone yet," he asked, hoping that Garrent would have at least one thing to be pleased about by the end of today.

"Ah." B'dril leaned back against the steps, a thoughtful look on his face. "As a matter of fact, yes. There's one very promising lad we'd like to take back to Igen with us."

Hearing that, Martonal relaxed. This was the best news possible! "That's good," he said, "Garrent will be pleased!" Idly, he wondered which boy had been lucky enough to be chosen, not that it wouldn't be obvious the moment he returned to the Hold. "Will you… have you told Garrent why I _won't_ be Searched?"

The bronzerider's lips quirked into a quick smile. "Why you believe yourself to be unworthy, or a suitable excuse that'll maintain the Hold's pride?" He kept his gaze firmly on Martonal's own, until the boy realised that this was a question that the bronzerider expected to be answered.

"Whatever's best, sir." If he was honest with himself, he really didn't know. The truth was unpleasant, but was it right to keep hiding from it? Keeping the pain locked away… "What _would_ be best?" he asked.

"I don't know," B'dril admitted. "I wanted to speak to you again first, before I made up my mind, but you conveniently managed to disappear after I asked for you specifically."

Martonal started to stammer out an apology, but the bronzerider waved him to silence.

"Never mind that. No. I don't know how much you took in that night. Why do you think the blue died?"

Slumping back against the steps, the boy hung his head in shame. "None of us were right for him. You told us that."

"I did, yes. And that's was the truth. But it's not _all_ of the truth."

Curious, Martonal looked up, trying to figure out what the bronzerider meant.

B'dril's eyes were full of compassion as he began to explain. "No-one knows quite what makes a hatchling dragon pick a certain candidate. Why some boys Impress, why others are left standing. Why some hatchlings will Impress to the nearest candidate almost straight out of the egg, while others will scour the entire cavern before settling on a rider. Or why some of them don't Impress at all… Oh, there are all sorts of theories. Perhaps they sensed their ideal match while still in the shell, but not on the sands, or maybe just never at all. Sometimes, an egg doesn't even hatch. That blue… none of you were right for him, we know that much, but we don't know if _anyone_ on Pern would have been. Does that mean that there _isn't_ a single dragon on all of Pern, hatched, unhatched, or yet to be, that you boys would be right for?"

"I don't know," Martonal said, still trying to understand everything the rider had said.

"More to the point, nor do we." He stood up, and called to his dragon out on the lake. "Your turn, Callinth. Time to take a look at the Hold's ladies." He stretched a hand down to Martonal, and helped him to his feet. "Well then. Shall we see if your cousin meets Callinth's exacting standards?"

Back in Green Lake Hold's courtyard, Martonal didn't know where to look. The boys had broken up into smaller groups, but, try as he might, Martonal couldn't spot which lucky lad had been Searched. And, as curious as he was, he was far more interested in watching the large bronze inspect the Hold's girls and unmarried young women, especially since Sildea was next in line. B'dril was still standing beside him, watching his dragon from a distance while the blue and green riders led each girl up in turn, first to their own dragons, and then on to the bronze. When Sildea's turn came, she walked forwards boldly, and Martonal was sure that Callinth spent longer inspecting her than he had the girl before. But then it was the next girl's turn, and she was sent back to her place in the line. Had she been unsuccessful, or was B'dril waiting until his dragon had seen everyone?

The bronzerider must have caught sight of the look on his face, because he started talking softly soon after. "It's different when we Search girls for a queen egg, lad. If she were a boy, we'd be in no doubt about Searching her. She's bold enough, self-assured, and willing to learn, my Callinth says. But Queen dragons are different to the others, and look for different things in their riders. Sometimes they pick someone motherly, or someone tough enough to wrestle wherries before breakfast like our old Weyrwoman Alanti, or one of those rare women who can hear all dragons without even trying, like Torene or Moreta of Benden. Those ones _always_ seem to Impress, mind. They're all different though, weyrwomen, no real pattern to them, except that a bronze dragon chose them out of hundreds or thousands of others. The girls we leave behind… oh, I'm sure some of them could Impress a gold, if there was no-one else there, and would make fine, capable weyrwomen… but the ones that come back to the Weyr with us have something more. Some… affinity that the bronzes feel. Oh, some girls get to the Weyr without it, but they're Searched by the riders, not the dragons, and not for the egg on the sands."

Martonal nodded. There were stories about some bronzeriders, he remembered, but the note of disgust that had edged into B'dril's voice towards the end suggested that he at least wasn't one of them. "Does… does Sildea have it?" he asked.

B'dril sighed, and shook his head, his eyes on the final girl in the line as she returned to her place, then on his dragon as the bronze began to amble back towards his rider. "Sorry lad. None of them do."

Disappointment for his cousin filled his mind. Oh, he knew she hadn't expected to be Searched, but she'd be feeling hurt and inadequate all the same. Martonal knew how _that_ felt, but she wouldn't understand his empathy until she knew _why_ he could sympathise with her so. Everyone would know soon, for B'dril would surely explain to Holder Garrent what had happened at the last Igen hatching before he and the other riders left with their chosen candidate, and the gossip would probably spread through the rest of the Hold even before the dragons blinked _between_. He watched as B'dril greeted his dragon with an affectionate slap on the bronze's foreleg, and waited to see what the rider would do next. Eventually, B'dril craned his neck back over his shoulder to look at him.

"Martonal, I'm going to speak to Garrent about you now," B'dril said, almost as if the rider had read the boy's mind. "Will you come?"

Martonal nodded glumly and took a deep breath, mustering his courage for what was to come. "I think I should. It helped, you know. What you said at the lake. I think I can face it better now."

The bronzerider's hand slipped from his dragon's leg, and he barked a laugh. "Oh, lad. You _still_ think that? Which promising boy did you think I was talking about out at the lake then?"

The different pieces of the puzzle finally clicked together, and Martonal felt his jaw drop. Surely he didn't mean… "But… But last time, you should have chosen someone else, one of the other boys! He might have Impressed. There _must_ be a better choice than me!"

B'dril leaned casually back against Callinth's leg, and shook his head. "Here? No. Not according to Spellianth and Negth, and they're two of the best Searchdragons Igen has. Elsewhere? Maybe, maybe. But we're not in the habit of leaving candidates behind, not when the hatchlings _need_ a good choice. You may not Impress this time either. And I won't lie to you: you may even be unfortunate enough to witness another hatchling die because he or she doesn't want you… but after watching that blue die, do you dare refuse?"

Martonal froze in horror. It was slowly sinking in that he need no longer believe himself responsible for the blue dragonet's death – he was flawed, yes, but not responsible – but if he caused another dragon to die by _not_ being there, instead of just by not being someone else… "No!" he exclaimed.

"Good," B'dril said firmly, and in just that one word Martonal got for the first time the clear impression that this rider was more than just a man willing to concern himself with the well-being of a one-time candidate. He was manipulative and determined, a man to be obeyed, a true dragonrider doing his duty by his Weyr for all Pern's benefit. The impression solidified as the bronzerider went on. "Good. You _will_ stand, boy, but not with those doubts in your head. We don't have many lads to choose from in these hard times, and by the shards of Callinth's egg, we're not going to let any of you waste the chance those dragons need you to have."


	5. Chapter 5

Clutching the back of the bluerider on whose dragon he rode, Martonal dared to lean out over Spellianth's neck and peer down at the Weyr below. It looked exactly as he remembered when he saw it last, no different at all. The same was true of the smiling face of the Headwoman's assistant who greeted him when they landed, and the small partition of the weyrling barracks where the candidates were housed prior to the hatching. Martonal quickly stowed the bag holding his change of clothes on the low shelf at the foot of his assigned bed and then sat down, wondering where to go next. There were no other candidates in the room right then, but he could hardly be the first to arrive.

Last time, they'd been kept busy by one of the Weyrlingmaster's assistants, but there was no knowing where the candidates would be right now. They could be listening to a lecture in the lower caverns, assisting with chores, or maybe even viewing the eggs from the edge of the Hatching Sands. Now that he thought about it, he didn't even have an idea of how long he'd be here before the hatching started. It might even be today! Martonal had just made up his mind to go looking for someone who'd know where the other candidates were when a troop of almost two dozen boys entered the room, chatting excitedly to one another about the eggs they'd just seen for the first time. Strangely, it was some of the youngest lads who seemed the most laid back and blasé about their experience; Martonal fingered them instantly as Weyrbred. As the group milled about the room, he noticed that some of them were changing into rougher work-clothes; whatever chore or lesson the candidates had next, at least he was already properly dressed for it.

None of them paid Martonal much attention until the last boy limped into the barracks a little after the rest, a scrawny dark-haired lad of about Martonal's own age.

"Hey, we've a new one," the boy said.

A chorus of bored disdain echoed through the room, and conversations quickly returned to eggs and dragons, far more interesting than yet another new candidate.

The boy crossed the room haltingly and offered Martonal his hand. "I'm Gerrit, from the tannerhall."

"Martonal, from Green Lake Hold," Martonal replied. He smiled warmly, remembering the hard time Yorrent had had with his bad leg with the other Hold lads - and he'd been the son of the Holder, not a tannercraft boy still carrying a faint whiff of the stink of his home.

"Never 'eard of it," said a muffled voice from the bed next to Martonal's.

Martonal turned to see a stocky figure stuck halfway into a buttoned-up shirt. With a tug, the boy's red head popped free, revealing a brown face that was an almost solid mass of freckles. "Where's that at then?" the boy asked.

"Upriver from Southern Telgar, isn't it?" a third lad drawled from behind Martonal. "Don't you have maps at your seahold, Ithabod?"

"We have charts, deadglow!"

The two boys erupted into raucous bickering across his head, their insults escalating into such hilarious obscurity that eventually both boys collapsed onto Martonal's bed with whoops of laughter. Martonal could barely stifle his own hilarity, until, looking around to see whether the tannercraft lad had enjoyed the banter as much as he had, he saw just the empty space where Gerrit had been standing. The boy had limped away long before, presumably to find his own change of clothes.

Martonal gave a mental shrug. Well, he'd tried. He settled back down into conversation with the two boys, who introduced him to a few of the other candidates in between telling him every last detail about the waiting eggs. Most of the candidates were Hold- or Craftbred; there were only five weyrbred boys in the whole group. In fact, Martonal soon found out that not one of the boys had ever stood for Impression before. Well, there'd only been two other un-Impressed boys after Igen's last hatching beside himself, so perhaps that was no great surprise. And out of the Weyrbred boys, the oldest had only fourteen turns, and would have been too young to stand three years previously. A couple of lads looked too young to be standing now... although maybe that wasn't too surprising, under the circumstances. Alongside the queen egg, there were twenty-two others hardening on the sands, and only just that same number of boys in the barracks. Still, the Search wasn't over yet, not with the hatching another couple of days away.

Well, it had better not be over, anyway.

He fidgeted uncomfortably on his cot, and looked quickly round the barracks, wondering whether anyone senior would interrupt the group any time soon. A Weyr always had work for idle candidates, didn't it? Hard, heavy work to keep their minds occupied? He could do with some of that right now. Either side of him, Ithabod and Niko had moved on from their heated debate over which egg held which colour dragonet, and were now extolling their excellent chances of Impressing, preferably bronzes or browns. Martonal flung himself backwards with a sigh, and closed his eyes.

"What about you, Mar?" Niko asked. "Bronze? Blue? Green?"

Unbidden, the memory of the last hatching swam before his eyes. Martonal squeezed his eyes closed more tightly, and tried to remember B'dril's words more clearly. He'd not been meant to Impress that hatchling, but these were different eggs, a different clutch meant for different riders. Maybe even one of them was meant for him... maybe. He opened his eyes, and smiled wryly.

"Dunno. I've not even seen the eggs yet, have I?" That answer was easily enough to satisfy his new friends, and, indeed, all Niko and Ithabod needed to launch them back into their argument over which eggs would clutch bronzes. But they'd barely had time to disagree over the first egg when a deep voice bellowed something indecipherable from the direction of the barracks' doorway.

Using his friends for leverage, Martonal pulled himself upright and peered over at the newcomer. In the brief glimpse he managed before a group of other lads blocked his view, Martonal saw that he was short, bearded, and wearing wherhide and shoulder knots. Well, that didn't help! He could've been anyone, from the Weyrleader down to someone just bringing one of the candidates a message. But some of the lads were starting to file out of the barracks now, and the raucous conversation which had previously filled the room was rapidly dying down to a few lone voices. Wondering if he should follow them, Martonal nudged Niko to silence just as the man spoke again.

"Didn't you lazy sandworms hear me? Move! Extra chores for the last one to the lake."

Well, that left no room for doubt! Jostling the seahold lad aside, Martonal sprang to his feet and joined the small flood of boys all trying to leave the room at once. Despite all the pushing and shoving, no-one was disturbing the space around the stern-faced man in the doorway. He was no-one Martonal recognised from his last hatching here at Igen, but his knots and the rather petite dragon crouched outside the barracks identified him as a bluerider, while his surly demeanour suggested that he was someone chosen as much as to keep a gang of unruly teenage boys in line as to actually teach them anything. Martonal was glad to be quickly past him.

He crossed the bowl at a run, overtaking some of the boys who'd left the barracks before him while being outstripped by others. Niko kept pace with him, but Ithabod was surprisingly swift for his build and was soon leading the pack. No-one wanted the extra chores, that was for certain - being a candidate was hard enough work as it was - but Ithabod and some of the others were sprinting as if it was a Gatherday Race. The Weyrlingmaster's assistant had shown them the stick already... would there be a redfruit for the winner? He twisted his head over his shoulder, meaning to ask Niko if he knew about anything like that, and instead caught sight of Gerrit limping grimly along at the back of the group. Bearing swiftly down on him was a small blue dragon, scarcely half a dragonlength above the ground.

Dizzied, Martonal gulped down a sudden wave of nausea and stumbled to a halt. For an instant, the limping figure had been his old friend Yorrent. Remembered horrors swam in front of his now tightly closed eyes: memories he'd not relived in well over a Turn. He fought down the urge to call out a warning. There was still time; he hadn't heard the other boy screaming yet. Just the sound of his own rough breathing, the pounding thud of his own heartbeat, and very distantly someone asking him what he was doing, why he'd stopped. "I have to help him," he muttered.

"C'mon, Mar. Don't waste time on that crip. We can still catch up with the others if we hurry!"

Niko, some part of his mind registered. One of the other candidates, here at Igen Weyr. Igen Weyr, not Telgar. It wasn't real, it was over, all in the past.  
Biting his tongue, Martonal let the sudden pain draw him back to the present. He breathed deeply of the Weyrbowl's warm, dry air and dared to open his eyes again. Niko had already gone on, hurrying towards the lake where the blue dragon and his rider were waiting. Behind him, Gerrit was slowly and awkwardly closing the gap between them. Martonal stared at him, wondering how he could possibly have mistaken him for his lost friend.

Gerrit stopped beside him, and scowled off into empty space. "Ain't you... seen... a crippled boy... run before?" he demanded in between breaths.

"What? I wasn't..."

"Oh, so you thought you'd... spare me those chores, did you?"

"No!" Martonal shook his head, trying to gather his thoughts together well enough to figure out what the other lad's problem was. He'd been staring, yes - not that he could possibly explain to Gerrit why - but he certainly hadn't had any such lofty motives in mind. And why would Gerrit be so angry at him thinking he had? "What's it to you if I was?" he asked.

The tannercraft boy glared at him. "Just like all the rest, you are. Thinking I'm useless, that I can't manage for myself."

Martonal felt his cheeks flush. He should have known better, should have remembered how touchy Yorrent had been over his disability, and how hard he'd had to work to keep up - but he'd always managed more than his fair share of his chores. "I don't think that. I don't even know you."

"That's right, you don't," Gerrit snapped. "Well, you needn't have bothered. R'ben isn't gonna punish me any extra for doing my best. If you were trying to make yourself look good, you've just made yourself look dumb, deadglow."

Was that what the Weyrlingmaster's assistant would think? Martonal frowned and looked back round towards the lake. Even from this distance, R'ben didn't look impressed.

"Go on, deadglow, run for it," Gerrit went on, speaking to Martonal's back. "Get in enough practice and you might be able to _catch_ a dragon. I don't fancy your chances, otherwise."

Furious, Martonal spun back around, fighting down the urge to shove the other boy to the ground. "You don't know anything about me either," he spat out. Except how to hurt me, the small voice in his head continued. Ignoring it, and the echoing truth of Gerrit's last statement, Martonal turned back to the lake, and ran.


	6. Chapter 6

Martonal was breathless by the time he reached the lake shore, arriving just behind one of the weyrbred candidates. He'd made up a lot of ground, although not quite enough, but rather than wishing himself a better sprinter he wished even more that Gerrit hadn't struck such a nerve. There was no chance of slipping unnoticed into the crowd, not with the Weyrlingmaster's Assistant glaring right at him, but as R'ben ordered the group to form three neat rows further down the shoreline Martonal wondered if maybe the promised chores had been just an empty threat to get them moving.

"You! New boy! Come here."

With a sinking heart, Martonal turned back.

"Sir?"

R'ben puffed out his chest and placed his hands sternly on his hips. "I don't care what things were like wherever they scraped you up from, but here at Igen Weyr we expect candidates to pay a little more attention to their superiors. You'll be breaking firestone this evening, after the meal."

A Weyr could never have enough firestone, and the job was hard and filthy enough to be the perfect punishment chore. Martonal nodded, unsurprised. "Yes, sir."

"Well, at least you don't kick up a fuss like some of the others did yesterday. What's your name?"

"Martonal, sir."

"Right. We're expecting a few more lads later today when S'call's wing gets back. Weyrlingmaster D'finter will speak to all of you then, but until then just stick close to the other boys and you won't go too..."

The rider's gaze lost focus briefly, and he frowned. "Yes, he did call himself that, didn't he," he murmured softly to himself. The sides of his mouth twisted slightly, into what might have been a poorly-disguised sneer. "You've been a candidate before."

"Yes."

"Huh. Well. Normally, we'd expect better of second-timers, but in your case..." R'ben shook his head, clearly dismissing the boy before him as a waste of his time. "Go and join the rest of them - and for Faranth's sake, try and pay attention."

Uncomfortably aware of R'ben's heavily booted step not far behind him, Martonal jogged over to the near end of the second row of boys. A few curious looks met his arrival, but most of the candidates had their eyes fixed firmly forwards, putting on a good show of being properly attentive while they waited for R'ben's instructions, Martonal guessed. He stood up straighter and followed their example as the dragonrider paced slowly down the length of the front row and back again. After two more repeats of his circuit, either to give Gerrit enough time to limp to the back of the group, or to ensure that the candidates were all properly cowed, or maybe both, the dragonrider stopped his pacing and hopped onto a low rocky outcrop at the edge of the water.

"Candidates. Some of you, in a few days time, will be _dragonriders_. I have my doubts that any of you deserve it, but these are hard times."

R'ben paused, and slowly scanned the watching faces of the candidates. Did he linger more on Martonal's? Or was it just his imagination?

"Hard times," R'ben repeated. "So the best we can do for our dragons is to make sure you know how to look after them, even if you're practically incapable of looking after yourselves. This afternoon, you'll get to learn about a dragon's basic anatomy, and how to care for your dragon properly. Arsheth needs oiling, and G'rem would appreciate some assistance. And you're not to treat him the way you treat the crips in some of your own Holds and Halls. He was a wingleader before the plague, and probably saved your family homes from Thread more times than you deadglows could count. He deserves your respect. I'll have none of you saying anything that might upset Arsheth or the other dragons, or, by Faranth, you'll be out of this Weyr so fast you'd think Thread was on your tail. Ah. Here he comes now."

For the second time that day, Martonal watched a bronze dragon wade out of a lake, shaking his wings and broad neck free of excess moisture. But this dragon was smaller than Callinth in the body, quite differently proportioned, and seemed to move with less suppleness. Was it old? Martonal craned his neck to look over the heads of the other candidates for the bronzerider; even crippled as they'd been warned he was, he wouldn't be far away. He soon spotted someone sitting on a stool a little further up the shoreline, but had no time for more than a cursory glance before R'ben started speaking again.

"Now. Oiling's what a dragon needs, after he's finished bathing. For an older dragon, you can get away with spot oiling on a daily basis and save the full job for after every other feed. They eat far less often than a hatchling does - should you Impress, you'll be oiling your dragons after every. Single. Meal. That's six times a day at the start, and you'll be doing it all by yourself. For now though, I want you split into two groups, one for each side. Front row, and you four on the left on the second row - yes, you. You're with me. The rest of you, report to G'rem over there. Now get to it."

Finding himself in the second group, Martonal immediately started over towards the bronzerider, determined not to be last to arrive yet again. A couple of the weyrbred boys were beside him in the centre of the group that clustered around the rider. Unlike some of the other candidates, they seemed quite nonplussed by the bronze dragon watching them assemble, and one of them was even greeted huskily by G'rem. The bronzerider's face, etched though it was with lines of pain and stoic endurance, didn't look to be any older than fifty Turns, but his body could easily have belonged to a man twice his age. Loose trousers over legs crossed at the ankles did little to conceal the wasting of his lower limbs. Below his rolled-up shirtsleeves, the rider's arms were equally emaciated, with what muscles were left to him toned into wiry cords. In the Hold, of the two out of every three people who had been struck down by the plague, half had died. How many dragons and riders had been lost here at the Weyr?

G'rem cracked his knuckles, and reached down to haul up a bucket from beside his stool. Another half dozen or so buckets were scattered around the dragon, already filled close to brimming with the shimmer of oil, but the one swinging from the rider's hand held strips of cloth instead. With more strength than Martonal would have guessed he possessed, he hurled it into the arms of one of the weyrboys, the same one he'd spoken to earlier. "Right, boys, listen well", he rasped. "I ain't going to repeat myself to the likes of you."

The rider tersely described how much oil to use, how much pressure, and how long they should spend on each cloth-sized portion of Arsheth's hide. Martonal listened closely. It sounded fairly simple, really, not unlike caring for a runnerbeast, he supposed. Except who would want to spend hours currying a runner the size of a dragon? And who _wouldn't_ give every last mark they had to have the privilege of being a candidate, and helping to care for a real, live dragon?

G'rem's voice broke through Martonal's reverie, almost as if the rider had heard his thoughts. "Some of you'll have ridden runners, know how to care for 'em. Probably reckon that makes you an expert on dragonkind as well, like." G'rem paused and scanned the group of boys, his eyes finally settling on a tanned and brightly-clad lad at the far side of the group, whose garments marked him out as an itinerant trader. "You there, what's your name boy?"

"Porrigor, of the Foleymore traders"

"And you know runnerbeasts?"

"Better'n anyone!" the boy answered, puffing out his chest with pride.

"Oh, I'm sure you do. And what's the most important part of a runner to look after then?"

"All of it, but hoof and leg first of all, or it ain't going anywhere."

"Mmm-hmm. So you'll _know_ which part of Arsheth needs the carefulest eyes then?"

All eyes were on the young trader, as he frowned in confusion. "His... his feet?"

G'rem rolled his eyes. "Aye, because dragons are _known_ for walking 'twixt Hold and Weyr. Don't surprise me that some of you pay little attention to your teaching ballads, but you do have eyes, don'tcha? Wings, boy, wings! And the musculature that supports them. _Dragonmen must fly when Thread is in the sky_. Patchy skin cracks and lets in the cold, leads to cramps, tears. Your dragon's muscles won't respond so sharp, and that's when Thread'll get you.

"Thread's gone," someone muttered from the back of the pack of candidates.

"It's my legs are weak boy, not my ears," G'rem barked. But despite his sharp tone, the dragonman showed no sign of lasting annoyance. With a soft sigh, he eased himself into a more comfortable pose on his stool. "Yes, Thread's gone, but there's more to flying than sitting back and letting your dragon flap about. You'll be dead just as quick if you get it wrong. But we won't worry about that today. Go on then, Albadril, hand those cloths round."

While the weyrbred lad handed out the supplies, Martonal turned his attention back from G'rem to the dragon, now easing himself down onto the dry ground. His mind raced to the task ahead. How often did you get to spend so much time in close proximity to a dragon, and a bronze one at that? Sure, he'd been a-dragonback already today, but the flight to the Weyr on blue Spellianth had been short, and with little space for thought. Landing with his trousers still dry had been his main concern at the time. Martonal had been hoisted up onto Spellianth's back like so much luggage, and no sooner had he been clipped to Searchrider J'saw's belt than the dragon was launching them into the air. For the little time the flight had lasted the sights and sensations of flying had consumed him, then the terror of the lack of both in _between_. He'd scarce had time to think about the dragon who'd conveyed him at all. What would Arsheth's hide feel like, still wet from the lake? And surely, even as easy as it sounded, this wasn't a job to trust to mere candidates... though like R'ben had said, the lucky ones would be oiling and oiling their own dragons soon enough. Would he, too, soon be responsible for the well-being of such a marvellous...

"You boy. Tall one, with your head in the clouds?"

Martonal's eyes swiftly darted sideways back to G'rem, whose wiry right arm was now pointing unerringly straight at him. The weyrbred lad who'd been handing out oil-cloths already had one held out ready for him.

"Mesmerising he might be," G'rem began in a slow, steady voice, "but you're not here for that. Save it for Impression, if you're lucky enough."

"Sor-"

"Nevermind that. Sorries don't get the work done. But if you want to be that attentive to Arsheth, I've no problem there! I'll expect a good job out of you, that's all. You've height enough on you; start at his withers - the shoulder joint in front his wings, that is - and keep on down his neck until you and Albadril here meet. Off you go."


	7. Chapter 7

Smiling, and still somewhat in awe of his luck, Martonal approached the bronze dragon. Some of the other candidates were already at work; Martonal joined the small group clustered around a bucket placed by the dragon's outstretched forelegs. Niko and another lad he didn't recognise were working on the dragon's chest, while Porrigor, perhaps unsurprisingly, was working his way down one of Arsheth's forelegs.

"Hey," Martonal said, "looks like I'm sharing your bucket."

"You get his wing, then?" Niko asked, peering over his shoulder but not pausing in his work, as if reluctant to break contact with the dragon's hide.

"Nah, shoulders and neck."

"Wings are for Weyrbred," the other boy said. "Gallogren'll be doing it, just wait."

Martonal dipped his cloth in the oil for the first time as the other boys shifted to make room, the trader boy ducking down to a crouch beside Arsheth's elbow. Should he greet the dragon, somehow? Or just get to work? A quick glance towards Arsheth's head answered his question: the dragon's faceted eyes, whirling green, were already on him. He nodded, and the dragon blinked and looked away, now watching the approach of the weyrbred boy who'd been assigned to oil his head.

"Right then," Martonal said under his breath. He stretched as high up the dragon's shoulder as he could, finding the base of the last neck ridge just within reach, and began to work the oil into the warm, bronze hide. It was awkward working with his arms so far above his head, and the continual stretching and bending to replenish the oil on his cloth soon had his back protesting. But even so, the job was far more pleasant than currying a runnerbeast. There was no hair getting everywhere, or dust, or the stench of urine in the straw underfoot. The last time he'd helped Green Lake's visiting Harper with his runner, the beast had seemed ready to kick him half the time, and when it wasn't twitching and stamping and eying him evilly, it had been determined to squash him by leaning its full weight on his side. Arsheth _did_ lean in a little to Martonal's hands, he realised, but he was pretty sure a dragon wouldn't do that out of malicious laziness.

Maybe... Martonal dipped his cloth in the oil bucket beside him, and moved on to the next neck-ridge. A gentle squeeze sent the oil trickling downwards, then a few quick strokes smeared it more evenly over the dragon's hide. Making the small circular strokes with the heel of his hand a little heavier than he had before, Martonal steadily massaged the oil into Arsheth's now gleaming skin. Perhaps he was imagining it, but the dragon didn't seem to be pushing against him any more. What if he pressed too hard though?

"Hmph"

Starting at the sound, Martonal turned to see G'rem, supported by a pair of crutches, standing behind him.

"Sir?"

"That'll do. You've got the idea, and a good feel for it, Arsheth says. Harder is better than softer, unless the skin is really cracked, and you won't find anythng like that on MY dragon. Just use a little more oil on the next ridge, where the skin creases. And don't worry if he flinches a little when you get closer to his head - got a few ticklish spots on the underside of his neck, that's all."

G'rem moved on, and Martonal looked down the dragon's neck towards the short weyrbred boy who was working the other way, and caught his eye. Albadril, that was his name. "Never knew a dragon could be ticklish," he said softly.

"Some do," Albadril said, his hands working swiftly and confidently. "Arsheth's not the worst of them - just don't do it when they're belly full of firestone!"

Martonal grunted a laugh. "I guess that could be a problem... You help with the dragons a lot then?"

"Arsheth, Lallyth, Umdenoth, and Seth mostly. Willith, whenever he gets _really_ dirty. Never Tomrenth, though A'sheb _knows_ he needs the help. Some riders have more pride than sense, I can tell you. Sometimes Callinth, if I'm lucky."

"Callinth?" Surely Martonal had misheard the last dragon's name. B'dril wouldn't need any help from anyone, would he? " _B'dril's_ Callinth? He needs help?"

"Oh, you've met my da then? Course he doesn't need any help! But I don't see much of him otherwise, and he IS the best rider in the Weyr. Gotta learn from someone, right, why not your own sire? And Callinth'll speak to me sometimes, which not everyone can say of their father's dragon, if they have one."

"Really? He speaks to you?" Martonal hadn't thought dragons _could_ speak to other people, and wasn't sure if he really believed the other boy.

Albadril grinned smugly, and went on. "Yeah. Pretty good, huh? He sounds like my Da, sort of, but not so serious. And right there in my head, like someone's snuck up behind you. Fair made me jump, the first time."

"What did he say?" Martonal asked, genuinely curious, as he moved on to the next neck-ridge.

"Told me 'B'dril needs a clean shirt' - don't look at me like that, he did! And then he said that he'd see I got to the Gather like I wanted if I could run it down to my Da fast enough. Which I did, I'll have you know, and _that_ 's how I was the only one of us Weyrboys that went to Igen's Spring Gather two turns back. THAT shut Timolit and Gallogren up all right."

"Didn't their fathers take them?"

Albadril gave him a quick frown. "Some people you don't talk about fathers to. Plague hit the Weyrs as hard as the Holds, you know. Worse, probably."

"Worse?" Weyrbred bias, Martonal wondered? Dragonriders had to care for their dragons, sure, but they weren't likely to starve. Holders had to grow enough for their tithes as well as for themselves, and even after ten turns life hadn't really improved all that much.

"Dragons _hate_ it when one of them goes _between_ to die," Albadril explained. "It really upsets them. With the old ones, it's not that often and you kind of expect it, but some days the Weyr lost half a dozen, one after the other. I don't remember it myself, but it was awful, everyone says."

That made sense. The deaths _would_ be worse for Weyrfolk. But not everyone died. "Are there many riders that were... like G'rem, that didn't fully recover?"

"Cripples, you mean?" The Weyrboy sighed. "Sometimes, the dragons would pull them through, them as wouldn't have survived, Ellian says. She's my foster-ma, and one of the Healers. But then they didn't get any better, and some of them couldn't face it, and went _between_ anyway. There's some who think more of the survivors should've gone _between_ \- that we don't need riders like G'rem any more, and it's not like they're needed with Thread gone - but that's just _wrong_. My da says, should be that more of them had the courage to stay, that there's always stuff they can do, and it's bad for the Weyr for them to go. G'rem there, his Arsheth flew the previous junior queen six turns back, before she swapped for weyrwoman Erris and Saerlith. Good clutch. My half-brother Impressed at that one. And G'rem was one of the best wingleaders, my da says, taught him lots. More use to the Weyr than _some_ riders."

"Oh?"

Albadril's chatter continued non-stop after that, and by the time the two boys had finished oiling Arsheth's neck Martonal was sure he'd been introduced to the failings and merits of half the riders and dragons in the Weyr, and most of the lower caverns too. Midway through dinner, he began to wonder if the other boy _ever_ stopped talking, and whether his small stature really was just because he was younger than the other candidates, or if it was because he was always too busy saying something to actually get any eating done.

By the time R'ben called him aside and sent him off to the firestone bunker, Martonal was simply grateful for some peace and quiet at last!


	8. Chapter 8

Shoulder-deep in cool, scummy water, Martonal scrabbled at the bottom of the trough for the errant bar of leather-soap. It had to be down here somewhere.

"Want me to try?"

Martonal grinned. It had taken most of the day, but at last Campen was volunteering to get himself dirty, rather than expecting everyone else to get dirty for him. Or maybe the heat had gotten to him, and he'd realised a soaking was a good way of staying cool? Despite being younger than Martonal and most of the other Candidates, the boy was clearly more used to bossing others around than doing any of the hard work himself - but the Search dragons had brought him back to the Weyr all the same, just that very morning.

A small round shape slipped sideways beneath Martonal's fingers, and he pursued it into a corner of the trough.

"Nah. I've got it," he said, carefully closing his fist around the soap. He drew it from the water and tossed it over the trough to Gerrit, who snatched it easily out of the air one-handed and began lathering up the strap held in his other hand.

"Watch and learn, Martonal," said Albadril, sitting beside Gerrit. "A dragonrider needs good catching skills!"

Still smiling, the retort came easily to Martonal's lips. "For firestone sacks, yeah. You planning on Impressing a Fire Lizard then, or something even smaller?"

"Ha, nice one," said Albadril with a grin.

"Small'd suit me fine," Gerrit said, holding the strap up to inspect it in the sunlight. "That bronze Arsheth took forever to clean yesterday. And I bet bronzes eat more, too."

"They fly the Queens though," Campen said. " _And_ get to be wingleaders. Is the Junior Weyrwoman pretty?"

"Prettier than your ma!" Albadril said.

Martonal winced, and wondered whether the Hold boy would start something over a jibe like that. "Setting your sights a little high, aren't you?" he asked, hoping to diffuse things a little. But Campen was still smiling, more charmingly than ever.

"What, you don't think I'm up to the challenge of a grown woman?" he asked.

Albadril started snickering. He was probably to young to have any real interest in girls yet, Martonal decided.

"Still wish I'd been here," Campen went on. "And you got to see the eggs and all, didn't you?"

"Not me." Leaving the other two boys to answer Campen's questions about the clutch on the sands, Martonal stood up and walked over to the pile of soiled fighting straps, and pulled another set of harness free of the tangle. Once unwound and unbuckled, this one looked as if it would only be about twice his own length in leather; they'd lucked out with a green's or a blue's this time. He carried it back to the group and began wrestling with the stiffened buckles, wondering while he worked which of the boys around him would be sat here in the Igen dirt repeating this task again and again over the Turns ahead.

They'd started the day lightly in the Lower Caverns, being grilled on dragon anatomy by Weyrlingmaster D'finter while they tucked into a breakfast of sweetrolls and Klah. At midmorning there'd been a brief flurry of excitement as another group of candidates was delivered to the Weyr, Campen amongst them. The candidates were tasked with sorting firestone for the rest of the morning before breaking for a light lunch, and then set to work helping to butcher herdbeasts ready for the hatching, which was now expected to occur at any hour. Campen had fainted, much to the derision of the other boys - but by the time the job was finished, with everyone stinking of blood and bothered by clouds of Bitemes, not a few had spoken enviously of his good fortune in having such a weak stomach. Barrels of lakewater were rolled over to the candidate barracks so they could get clean before they were allowed back into the lower caverns for some much-needed refreshment. While they drank, R'ben ran through their instructions for the Hatching yet again, before explaining in great detail how much meat they'd be expected to feed the new hatchlings after Impression, and then it was back out into the Weyrbowl again.

R'ben had separated them into small groups, and shown them seven piles of fighting straps that needed to be cleaned before the evening meal. After a little trial and error under the close guidance of Gerrit and Albradril, both of whom were well-used to working with leather, Martonal's group had soon settled into a quick routine. Martonal would separate the straps into single pieces, then pass them on to Gerrit for soaping. That job done, the straps would be returned to Martonal again so he could sponge them clean of soap and dirt before passing them on to Campen for a more thorough drying. Finally, Albadril would oil and reassemble them again. Martonal knew they'd have been completely lost at that last part of their task without having the weyrbred boy to hand, and was even beginning to warm up to the other boy's garrulous, know-it-all attitude. He couldn't help knowing what he did, after all. Sometimes, what he did know was quite surprising.

There'd been a discussion in the barracks the previous night of what the Search dragons actually looked for in the candidates they brought back to the Weyr. Courage, strength, empathy and numerous other qualities got mentioned again and again, given different weights according to how each of the boys saw his own character. Martonal hadn't expected to hear anything he hadn't heard before, either here or at Telgar Weyr, until Albadril had uttered a single word, his uncharacteristic succinctness grabbing everyone's attention and silencing, at least briefly, the whole room.

'Potential', Albadril had repeated, before continuing. 'That's what they look for, my father told me. All of us could be good dragonriders. Doesn't mean we all will, even if we do Impress, but we've all got the same chance, same potential.'

Albadril had been argued down by some of the older boys after that, but looking at the three boys beside him, one each from Weyr, Hold and Craft, Martonal decided that he was probably right. Dragons, like people, made their judgments based on quick first impressions, but somehow the dragons were able to look a little deeper than humans could. Gerrit was physically limited and quick to anger, but he was equally quick to forgive. He'd even shown up at the firestone bunkers last night and helped Martonal bag the stone he'd broken up, more than proving that he had strength and stamina enough to make up for his lack of speed. Albadril was barely more than a kid, and although he could be rather obnoxious at times about knowing everything about everything, who knew what sort of man he'd grow into? He certainly treated all the other candidates alike, as if he, like Weyrlingmaster D'finter, knew that nothing really mattered until after the eggs hatched. As for Campen, well. Martonal figured it was best to give the lad the benefit of the doubt. He'd been Searched, just like everyone else.

Like Martonal had been, too. Slowly, he was becoming more and more accepting of the idea that it wasn't impossible that this time there _might_ be a dragon waiting in its egg just for him. Maybe. Surely his chances weren't _all_ that much worse than anyone else's?

The sound of footsteps made him look up from his straps just as another boy skidded breathlessly to a halt beside the group. It was one of the morning's other new arrivals from Igen Hold.

"Oy, Campen!" the boy said. "Have you heard?"

"Heard what?"

"About Benneck!"

Campen sneered. "Oh, come on. He's just a drudge. What's he done that's so special?"

"The Weyrlingmaster came over, then him and R'ben just dragged him off to the Weyrleader. That's what they said."

"Like I said, he's just a drudge. Probably decided he didn't belong with the rest of us after all."

"No, there've been drudges Impress before," Albadril said. "This is weird. I mean, candidates get in trouble all the time, but not so quickly, and they never get sent to the Weyrleader unless it's _really_ serious."

"Quite right, Albadril. As you'd know." None of the boys had noticed the Weyrlingmaster's assistant's approach, and R'ben's voice had an icy edge that sent Albadril pale. "But in this case, gossiping about the business of your betters is far too trivial to bother the Weyrleader over, so you and your two friends from the Hold can report to _me_ for your punishment later. Now back to work, all of you. Next one I hear speaking can do three laps of the Weyrbowl."


	9. Chapter 9

The afternoon wore on, the decreasing piles of leather straps beside the Candidates marking time as surely as the lengthening shadows cast by the Weyr's rim. Martonal's group was scarcely out from under the watchful eyes of the Weyrlingmaster's assistant for even a moment, and although he was often to be seen biting his lips, even Albadril held his silence until well after they were finally dismissed to their dinner in the lower caverns. He didn't speak until each of the group had collected a tray of food from the service area, and then, after checking that R'ben was well out of earshot, the weyrbred boy finally gave a sigh of relief, and pointed out a very specific table on the far side of the dining area. "That one, nearest the corridor to the Headwoman's office."

Small groups of Candidates were scattered haphazardly across the cavern, surrounded by dragonriders and lower caverns workers, but there was no sign of either Benneck or the Weyrlingmaster anywhere. Even R'ben seemed to have disappeared. At the raised table where the Weyrleaders sat on formal occasions, two old men were deep in discussion, but the Weyrleaders themselves were absent. Martonal picked up a few snatches of conversation as he crossed the room, but little of it concerned the upcoming hatching or the Candidates - and why the presence of a queen egg in this particular clutch should be so surprising he neither knew nor cared. He and the other Candidates had been worked hard all day, and food was far more of a priority.

The table Albadril had chosen for them was occupied by an old man, a greenrider by his knots. It seemed an odd choice to Martonal's mind, and he wondered if the rider was another of Albadril's relatives. Albadril greeted the greenrider, H'seller, by name, and launched straight into his habitual chatter, while the other boys set about the more important task of eating. Albadril had barely drawn the old man into conversation when another group of boys joined them - Niko, Porrigor and one of the day's newcomers, led by Gallogren, the oldest of the weyrbred Candidates.

"Evening, greenrider," Gallogren said as he sat down, a friendly smile on his face. "How're the joints tonight?"

"Bah! None the worse for your asking, for all you care." He looked pointedly at Gallogren's fork, already heavily laden with food and halfway to the boy's mouth. "It's my ears need your sympathy, thanks to young Albadril here."

Albadril pulled a glum expression. "H'seller! I thought you _liked_ talking to me!"

"Oh, cut it out, Albadril," H'seller said, rolling his eyes. "I can always tell when you're fishing for news, because you actually let me get a word in edgeways. And Gallogren _obviously_ cares deeply about all my old aches and pains. There's just no subtlety in youth today! Why, I remember a time..."

As face after face around the table dropped, the greenrider broke off, and winked. "Ha. Gullible as well, ain't you? Just 'cause I know what you're after doesn't mean you won't get it. So. There's not much other gossip going round the Weyr today that concerns you Candidates, and amusing as it was to see R'ben get his arse handed to him last night, I doubt _you're_ in need of a reminder, eh Albadril? You're after the Other story, right? The drudge girl?"

"You could tell us about R'ben too..." Martonal said hopefully - of all the things Albadril HAD said last night, he'd not mentioned the Weyrlingmaster's assistant at all. This was the second hint he'd heard that something interesting had happened, something that Albadril had almost certainly been punished for, but that R'ben had probably more than earned! But Campen was already off, chasing the greenrider's final words.

"Girl!" he exclaimed, his voice breaking into a squeak that sent laughter ringing round the table. "Benneck's no girl!"

"Ah, so you're the expert, are you?" H'seller chided, trying and failing to hide his growing broad grin.

Campen flushed. "Benneck's from my Hold. He's nothing, just a drudger, and a lousy coward snake of a fighter. Always skulking around in the backgro... Why are you laughing at me?"

"Boy, I ain't seen blindness like yours in decades. Of _course_ she's a girl! So, she hid from you, did she? Ain't like _that_ hasn't been done before, but it weren't someat she could've hid for long here. Weyrleaders've confirmed it, and she'll be standing with the rest of you."

"With _us_? Not with the other girls, for the queen egg?" Albadril's face wasn't the only one looking somewhat scandalised.

"B'dril said the queen candidates are Searched differently from us anyway," Martonal added, trying and failing to remember the bronzerider's exact words.

H'seller shook his head and laughed again softly. "Queens? Who said anything about queens? My. I'm just surrounded by experts today, aren't I? I'll have to get you lot to teach me knotwork next."

"But they _can't_ let her stand!" Campen slammed his fist down on the table in agitation. "Benneck don't deserve no dra..."

The greenrider's previously warm face visibly hardened as he cut through the boy's complaints. "And you do? Well?"

"Of cour..."

Albadril jabbed Campen in the ribs before he could compound his mistake any further. "No you _don't_. None of us _deserve_ anything. We're candidates, that's all. _If_ you Impress, then you can start putting on whatever airs you want."

"Aye, and the rest of us'll still mock you for 'em." H'seller added. "Airs don't go down too well in this Weyr, thanks Faranth."

"So Benneck -or whoever she is- is standing for a fighting dragon," Martonal mused aloud. One thing he did remember B'dril saying back at Green Lake was what the Search dragons had made of his cousin, Sildea. That if she'd been a boy, she'd likely have been chosen too. "Does she have a chance?"

The greenrider answered without a pause. "As much as the rest of you. You'd have to go way back, well into the last interval mind, but it's not like it hasn't happened before."

"What?" asked Gallogren

"Girls Impressing fighting dragons. Greens, most of the time. Some say it's just bad records, but I knew someone once who..."

"Oh god, H'seller, not another of your 'I knew someone once' tales..." said a new voice, thick with scorn. Martonal twisted to look over his shoulder, and saw a young man approaching, wearing a bronzerider's shoulder knots.

"Aye, one of them," H'seller said. "Got a problem with that?"

"Who cares?" said the bronzerider. "I've got more important things to talk about with Gallogren right now. Listen, Gally. We've just heard it from S'call. There's a girl in your class, and they're letting her stand."

"Yeah, we know already," Albadril said. "Everyone does."

"Was I talking to you?"

Albadril threw one hand to his brow dramatically. "The great E'gall deigns to notice a mere Candidate! Oh my! Even the wonder of _Impression_ pales into insignifi..."

Gallogren leaned past Niko and poked Albadril hard in the ribs repeatedly. "Stop mocking my brother, you mouthy little, little..."

The older weyrboy showed no sign of stopping. "Hey, that's enough." Martonal said, rising out of his chair ready to intervene if Gallogren carried on. He was bigger than the other boy, perhaps enough to forestall a fight... or perhaps not. Gallogren _did_ now have his brother looming behind Martonal, with all the advantages of being a _dragonrider_ , someone you were meant to be respectful to if you were just a mere Candidate.

Gallogren smirked. "What's it to you? Fancy little Alby, do you? Or just his busy little to..."

Across the table, H'seller glared, and Gallogren dropped silent. The weyrboy looked up to his brother for support, and Martonal turned again to follow his gaze. The dragonrider met and held his eyes, and his face creased into a frown.

"I know you." E'gall said slowly. "I do, don't I? But _they_ don't!"

Martonal racked his mind. The rider was young... and if he recognised Martonal, he had to be one of the other Candidates, from the last clutch at Igen. Oh, Faranth, he had to be. "No you don't," he said, feeling a little desperate.

"Yes, I do! And to think I was worried about _girls_ on the sands! Some Searchriders need their wits examined, letting someone like _him_ back into the Weyr!"

Confusion filled the faces of the other candidates, but H'seller's eyes were knowing as he eyed Martonal sadly. "Not everyone Impresses first time, E'gall," he said. The greenrider stood slowly, rubbing his back stiffly before picking up his tray of food. "Think I'll find some _better_ company today. Dragons know what you're all made of. Don't any of you doubt it."

Campen was the first of the candidates to make the link. "You've been a Candidate before? Why didn't you say?"

The other boys at the table echoed their agreement.

"Tell them," E'gall prompted.

All eyes were on Martonal, demanding an answer. "I didn't Impress."

"Well _obviously_ not." Albadril said. "You wouldn't be here if you had. He's not the only one ever to Stand at more than one Hatching; happens all the time, right? There's no shame in it..."

"Ha!" E'gall laughed. "'Happens all the time'? Always thought you were too busy talking to pay attention, but even _you_ must remember? Or was the last Hatching past baby's bedtime?"

"Dragons know." Gallogren said, echoing H'seller's words. " _No_ dragon wanted _him_."

" _Did_ they?" E'gall pushed.

"No!" Martonal snapped, knowing exactly what was coming.

E'gall smiled. "I did think you'd Impressed though, when that little blue approached you? And everyone was _so_ relieved? But like you say, you didn't Impress, did you?" His lips twist into a sneer. "What did you see in his eyes, _Candidate_ , when he looked at you, wanting someone, looking for his rider, and finding only you. Wanting, and finding you oh-so-wanting!"

"That was you?" Albadril asked.

Martonal bit the inside of his cheeks, barely hearing what the small weyrboy had said, and trying not to see the expression of horror and disgust which was growing ever more blatant on his face. He could feel the blood rushing through his ears, and as unthinkable as it was to want to strike a dragonman, at that moment there were few things he'd like to do more than to punch E'gall right in face, as hard as he could. But that was what E'gall wanted him to try, Martonal was sure of that - he was angry, not stupid - and as much as he wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else, getting sent from the Weyr in disgrace wasn't how he wanted to do it. Short of running away, what was he to do? He couldn't pretend it hadn't happened, and could he really, truly, abandon his own guilt, the way B'dril seemed to want him to? It was all his fault, and there was no hiding it, no purpose in pretending otherwise.

"I wasn't what he needed," he said softly.

"But what happened?" Campen asked. "Did something happen to the dragon? Why are you all looking at him like that?"

Albadril turned to answer Campen and the other Hold- and Craft-bred boys, dispelling their confusion and replacing it with the awful truth. "He _died_. The hatchling went _between_ , right there on the Sands." The boy's face twisted in sadness. "How can you bear to BE here?" he demanded of Martonal.

Enough was enough. There was rejection, plain to see, on every face, but it was funny, really, how little it seemed to matter to him. They couldn't reject him any more thoroughly than the little blue had, all those turns ago, and it was _those_ eyes he was seeing now in his memory, as clearly as he ever had. Whirling eyes, purpling-red with hunger and anguish and a pain that he could _feel_ , blackening, blackening, and then there was nothing there but sand and silence, and then that awful, awful keening. Martonal felt strangely calm as he pushed away from the table, and met Albadril's eyes.

"I can't".

Half dazed, heart pounding and breath short, Martonal walked slowly through the cavern away from his friends. He could feel silent accusations following him, prickling at his back. He didn't know where he was going, but it was true, so true: he couldn't bear to stay.


	10. Chapter 10

_Dust in my eyes. Just dust._

Martonal blinked away at the wet stinging beneath his eyelids, wishing the shame which filled him to the core could be so easily fixed. The Weyrbowl was no escape, a round infinity full of dragons that'd only bring him back to where he started, or worse. He looked to the sky. A heavy haze hung across the full width of the Weyr, the westering sun a blistering orange headache at its heart. Eddies of dust and sand swirled around him, driven by the evening breeze and the beating wings of dragons swooping low overhead.

 _Dragons know_.

Did they? Why then, why, had B'dril and his Searchriders brought him here? Some candidates never Impressed; the Searchriders didn't get it right all the time. But B'dril had seemed so sure, had almost managed to convince him.

 _You just weren't right for him. None of you were._

 _We're not in the habit of leaving candidates behind_.

 _Do you dare refuse?_

 _Dragons know_.

Oh, dragons knew all right. He'd seen that knowledge, would never stop seeing it - the moment that a desperate, despairing dragon simply lost the will to live. Who, then, should he believe? The blue that Searched him, or the one that searched his very soul?

 _Dragons know_.

And the last spark of hope flared and died within him. Dragons _know_ things, sure, but they fardling don't remember them! Spellianth might have brought him to the Weyr, but the Searchdragon didn't _remember_ him, or how he'd failed, and hadn't really had time to inspect him properly like he had the other boys. Oh Faranth, he couldn't have done. Ignorant, innocent, he'd made the mistake all over again.

 _How can you bear to BE here?_

 _Dragons know_.

A choked sound, half laugh, half sob, escaped from Martonal's mouth, and he broke into a jog for the nearest cavern, unable to bear the sight of the Weyrbowl any longer.

It wasn't until he'd reached the cavern's gaping entrance, and saw the great queen dragon crouching on the sands beside her clutch of gleaming eggs, that Martonal realised exactly where he was.

* * *

Candidates weren't usually known for being especially well behaved, but there were some rules that you just _knew_ you weren't to break. Sneaking in to the Hatching Grounds uninvited was definitely, definitely right at the top of the list. Martonal skidded to a halt on the hot sands. Had the Junior queen heard him? What about the old grey-haired woman raking the sands just beyond the dragon? Was there anyone else around? And where was the Junior Weyrwoman?

Keeping the queen in sight while trying to take in as much of the cavern as he could, Martonal slowly began to back away. Both the queen and the old woman were facing away from him. The dragon had her wings folded close to her back, but between her legs he could just make out her head dipping down to attend to a particular egg. The last Hatching he'd attended here at Igen, the eggs had been arranged in a loose ring, but this queen had organised them into small groups, with the queen egg shimmering a soft gold within a banked hollow of sand off to one side. Glow baskets were placed at regular intervals around the walls of the cavern, but not as many as he remembered. And it was so quiet! No humming of dragons, or cheers or gasps from the human audience, or creeling of hungry hatchling dragons. Just the sound of his own breathing, and a soft swishing noise of moving sand, as the old woman moved her rake backwards and forwards.

At that moment, the queen lifted her head and turned around, almost immediately followed by the old woman with the rake. With a sinking feeling, Martonal froze in place.

"You, boy!" the woman called out, her voice surprisingly loud as it echoed around the Hatching Sands. "Are you _meant_ to be here, boy?"

He shook his head, and laughed softly. Of _course_ he wasn't _meant_ to be here. But... "That's what I'm trying to figure out," he said at last.

"Hmmph. The usual answer is 'no' or 'sorry' followed by a swift scarper back to wherever you came from..."

Martonal grimaced apologetically and took a step back, but the woman stopped him before he could go any further.

"No, no, don't you dare leave just yet."

She strode briskly across the sands, her pace belying her age, and was soon standing before Martonal, hands on her hips, eying him appraisingly up and down. She wore tattered wherhide work-shorts and a vest without rank-knots. Her eyes were dark and deeply set in her weathered, tanned face, and her wrinkles suggested a normally pleasant character as much as her advanced age. Martonal would have guessed she was in her sixth decade, but weyrfolk seemed to age better than Holders, so she could have been much older. "Well," she said, "you've got my curiousity fired up now, and that doesn't happen often at my age, I can tell you!"

"I know I shouldn't b..."

She cut him off with a sharp glance. "So you'd make an old woman traipse all the way over here, and _then_ scarper? That's hardly fair is it?" Her lips twitched as if she was trying not to smile. "Now. Let's give my old legs a break and settle down on those rocks there."

She gestured vaguely behind her, but Martonal could tell the spot she meant: a solitary low outcropping of stone poking out of the sand close to the cavern wall, opposite the tiered seating.

"You'd be a Candidate?" she asked, as they walked over to the edge of the Sands.

Was he? Really? "I don't know."

"Oh, _come_ now. Search dragon bring you here?"

"Yes, but..."

The woman huffed a sigh, and sat herself down on the rocks. "Then you're a Candidate. And not the first to harbour doubts, neither, I'll have you know!"

Martonal looked at her, stunned. "How did you..."

The old woman gave him a conspiratorial glance, and seemed happy to explain. "Normally, when you get candidates sneaking into the Hatching Grounds, they're practically drooling as soon's they see the eggs. Big grins, eyes all lit up... and every ounce of sense flying out their thick skulls as if borne away by firelizards. Until they get caught and put on water-rations, that is! Don't often see them with such glum, _doubtful_ expressions on their faces. Makes it _easy_ to see WHAT the problem is when we get lads like you." She smiled kindly at him, as if she could sense how ill at ease he was feeling. "Why, though," she said softly. Her face took on a wistful expression as her eyes stared off into the distance, before sharpening into a piercing stare. "That's the tricky bit. Going to share it with an old lady?"

He found himself caught by the old woman's dark eyes, and despite the light tone in her voice he couldn't look away.

"Come on boy," she wheedled, as if talking to a stubborn canine.

It was almost like she _did_ have a leash on him, and was tugging away at him by force of will alone. Martonal took a breath and sighed, and then, feeling a flood of relief, he found the whole story spilling out of him all over again. It was easier this time round, in spite of being right there on the Sands. The old woman listened in silence as he talked of how he'd been Searched before, and how all his hopes had died along with the little blue hatchling that hadn't wanted him. He told her everything B'dril had told him, and why he had to stand again... and everything he'd seen in the faces of his friends, and why he couldn't possibly stay a moment longer. And really, it all came down to one question - how much _did_ a dragon know? Searchdragons could see a boy's potential, at least according to Albadril, but even they could never tell who would Impress and who wouldn't. And everyone knew a dragon wouldn't just choose anyone, that they each wanted something _special_ , a rider who was right for them and them alone. Had the Searchdragons simply missed the wrongness inside him? Or did he just need to wait for the dragon he was actually right for?

Finally running out of things to say, Martonal fell silent. The old woman looked at him thoughtfully for a few moments. Her eyes were wet with unshed tears, but as Martonal watched she blinked them away, then reached over to squeeze his hand.

"Ah, boy. What a sad story that is. And you've made a right wherry's nest of yourself over it, haven't you?"

Martonal ndded glumly. "I just wish I knew who to believe."

The old woman's lips tightened into a brief smile. "No. No, you don't. You _already_ know that. Honestly, I'm going to have to have words with B'dril. He's a good lad, like to be Weyrleader soon enough if I'm to believe half the talk in this Weyr, but he still has a lot to learn about _people_. He's already told you what you need to hear, and more than once from what you've told me, and likely thought the whole issue resolved! Trouble is, knowing something in your head is a very different matter from _feeling_ it in your heart. Hmmm?"

Martonal frowned. Hearing the old woman say it that way, it all made sense, but there was something in the way she'd said it that made him suddenly uncomfortable, though he couldn't quite put his finger on why. "That's... that's..."

"'Exactly right', are the words you're looking for," she finished for him. "Well. It may not help much, but you're quite wrong about Spellianth and Negth, Saerlith tells me. As if a Searchdragon wouldn't see ri-"

"Saerlith?" Martonal couldn't help but blurt out the dragon's name as the pieces fell into place. Old women didn't generally go around giving a piece of their mind to wingleaders, did they? Not unless they were well on the way to senility! But someone with the weight of a dragonrider's rank behind her, a queen dragon... And he'd _interrupted_ her, a _weyrwoman_! Martonal clapped a hand to his mouth, quite aghast with his lapse in manners.


	11. Chapter 11

Martonal had wondered who the old lady might be. And he'd wondered where the weyrwoman was too, the queen dragon's rider. But he hadn't for a minute entertained the possibility that they might be one and the same person! The _other_ weyrwoman, not the Weyrleader's mate - and he couldn't even remember what her name was, though he was sure he'd it mentioned. "You're..."

"Saerlith's rider, yes," the weyrwoman said, looking more amused than annoyed. ' _Junior_ Weyrwoman Erris', they call me, ha! Don't look much like a junior now, do I?" She eyed Martonal slyly. "This is your cue to say 'Why, you don't look a turn over 60'. Or 55, if you feel like flattering an old lady. Or 50, if you want me to know you for a _shameless_ liar".

Martonal couldn't help himself, and started to snigger. The weyrwoman joined him in a peal of warm laughter.

"Yes, that's more like it," Erris said as the hilarity of the moment died away. "But I was telling you about the Searchdragons, wasn't I? You're right that dragons aren't known for their memories, but their riders do better, and so does the Weyr. B'dril expected you might still be hurting, so the dragons were forewarned, and told why, well before they arrived at your Hold. So don't think they missed a thing! Negth and Spellianth both liked the look of you, even if you were a bit sad and confusing, so Saerlith says. And they thought it _right_ that a Candidate should care about dragons so."

"Really?"

"Really. But it's these ones you need to care about now." Erris rose, and gestured at the clutch of eggs on the sands before them. "I know _some_ of what you went through, boy. Seen enough dragons die, before their time, during the Pass. Ghastly thing, Thread is, just _ghastly_. And I stood for a couple of other clutches myself, before Saerlith cracked her shell. I'm not going to say she's not the perfect dragon for me, but I do think _I_ wasn't right for her any day sooner than the day she hatched. You could be a great rider, boy, but you have to be _ready_ to become one." The weyrwoman looked him steadily in the eyes, and spoke to him softly. " _Are_ you ready, boy? You need to decide that for yourself. And soon."

Martonal toook a deep breath and let it out in a sigh, wondering if this _was_ something he could simply decide. But who else could give him an answer to that question? He looked out across the Sands, at the eggs, and the great queen dragon tending them. Twenty-three eggs, soon to be twenty-three small and needy dragons.

Tracking his gaze, the Weyrwoman spoke again. "Yes, that might help. Come along then boy, Saerlith won't mind you taking a closer look at her clutch. You can give me an answer after you've seen the eggs."

Martonal sprang to his feet - the weyrwoman was already on the move again - and followed her towards the nearest group of eggs.

"Never really thought she'd rise again," Erris said as he caught up with her, "especially not in a winter month! But there's no telling a queen dragon that she's past it, oh no. And she clutched another queen egg to prove herself. Got me some very long odds on that from T'tyr, I did, more fool him. As if a weyrwoman my age _wouldn't_ know when her queen had been flown well enough to clutch one! Ha! Though it's the rest of the clutch that concerns you, and here it is." She spread both arms wide, beaming with pride at her dragon, who was now looming protectively on the other side of the eggs. "Ah, Saerlith, you _did_ do well."

Seven elongated ovoids nestled in the sand in front of them. This close, Martonal could see the patterns the weyrwoman had swept around them, in some cases mimicking the swirls and splotches of colour on the eggs themselves, and in others making a stark but fitting contrast. "They're beautiful," Martonal said truthfully.

"Won't be long now, you know," Erris said. "Tomorrow, well before noon if I'm any judge."

As if prompted by the weyrwoman's words, one of the eggs in the group suddenly rocked. It was covered in dark overlapping splotches, the largest of which put Martonal in mind of Green Lake seen from above, his last memory of home. Martonal gasped as the rocking grew more violent, thinking that the hatching might be even more imminent than the weyrwoman expected, that the egg might be hatching for _him_... but then the queen dragon crooned softly at the egg, and the rocking stilled.

"They do that, from time to time, when they're nearly ready," Erris explained. She looked from Martonal to the eggs and then back again. "It's not _so_ bad, standing here, is it?"

Martonal shook his head and smiled, realising that the weyrwoman was right, both in what she'd said, and also in bringing him here. _He was a Candidate! He_ wanted _to be a Candidate, to stand here, and to greet_ his _dragon when it hatched!_ Oh, he wanted it so much! Of course, it'd still be up to the hatchlings to decide if he was to be a dragonrider too, but shard it, he could live with that. "It's... Mostly it's pretty wonderful, really. Now I'm actually here."

"Good. Because you'll be doing it for real, tomorrow."

"I know. And if my dragon _is_ in one of those eggs, I'm not going to miss him - or her, I suppose." Martonal nodded with determination. "If I don't stand, and he can't find me... "

"I know, boy. And I know you're not going to let that happen, nor would any of the rest of us let you let it happen, so don't you fret about it. B'dril was right on that score, getting that clear in your head. I'd have told you the same thing myself. The thing is, telling and knowing isn't enough as far as dragons are concerned, or people, for that matter. You were hurt, badly, and it's scarred you. Faranth, forget about scars, it's practically still a bleeding wound. All those emotions you've been juggling round in your head - ever tried it for real, juggling scarves or balls like a Harper at a Gather?"

Martonal couldn't help but laugh at the weyrwoman's sudden diversion. "Yeah."

"Any good at it?"

"No!" Martonal said, laughing again.

"Well, that's men for you. You're just not _meant_ for juggling things. Let them drop, and don't carry more than you need to. And don't you dare let any of the other boys _add_ to your burdens. They don't know as much as they think they do. Think you can manage that?"

Could he? Could he stand here tomorrow, without his memories of other Hatchings getting in the way, thinking only of the moment at hand? Without caring what the other Candidates thought? It wasn't their judgment he was worried about anyway, and besides, if they _were_ right about him at least he wouldn't have to put up with it for long - he'd be sent back to the Hold to get on with his life in no time. It was the dragons that mattered. _These_ eggs, _these_ dragons. And how he felt about himself, of course. "I... I think so."

Erris studied him critically. "You're _allowed_ to hurt, even now. Don't be ashamed of that. Accept it, and all that happened... but know that accepting what happened is _not_ the same thing as blaming yourself for it, and it's certainly no excuse for not letting yourself heal. Ah, listen to me going on. Saerlith tells me you've got the gist of it already. Dragons know, boy. Dragons know. You get off back to the barracks now, and try and get some sleep. Faranth knows, you've a big day ahead of you!"

"I know," Martonal said. "And thank you, weyrwoman, and thanks to Saerlith too." He took a last, long look at the eggs before turning to leave, half hoping to see them move again, and all the while fixing the image of _this_ clutch firmly in his mind. He could do this. He could.

 _Dragons know_.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't as a rule go in for specific trigger warnings, unless it's easy to slide them in without making obvious spoilers. That said, count this as a non-specific warning - some of the words you are about to read may be distressing to certain readers. Hopefully, there's nothing out of context with what's already been shown or alluded to though.
> 
> Right then. On with the story! And thanks, as always, to everyone who left a review.

He was almost deafened by the humming of the watching dragons. The sound reverberated around the hatching cavern like thunder, broken only by the lightning-sharp cracks of disintegrating eggs. They all seemed to be breaking at once. The white-robed candidate beside him gestured at the nearest egg, but whatever he said was lost beneath the throaty rumbling of the dragons' welcome.

The egg was crumbling, pieces of shell flaking away under the onslaught of movement from within. A gaping tear appeared in shell and inner membrane, and the damply dark blue snout of a dragon forced its way through, followed swiftly by the rest of its body. Overbalanced by its surge for freedom, the hatchling crumpled to the sands with a creeling wail. For the briefest of moments, a sensation of outraged shock seemed to fill the cavern, only to be swamped by the dragon's rising tide of hunger.

Martonal's neighbour rushed forward to assist the young dragon, but it was already rising to its feet, and after that, it was just like Yorrent all over again. The hatchling stumbled onwards, leaving the injured boy lying limply on the sands, his hands grasping red and wetly at his belly while his face contorted into a scream, except that no sound was coming from his mouth, just more of the deep and deafening humming. Martonal tried to move, but he was rooted to the spot. The blue was getting closer, and for a moment it stared right at him, only to turn away and stumble off in the other direction. He watched it leave, followed its path back towards its fellows, all of whom were looking for their riders.

But they weren't finding them.

Martonal twisted round, as well as he could manage with half his body paralysed. All around, he saw the same thing: confused and hungry hatchlings, surrounded by a litter of broken bodies. The talons and jaws of the young dragons were stained red with blood, and they left the same dark stain in their wake, scarlet furrows gouged into the sands. Every once in a while their hunger would overcome their need for a rider, and one would dip his head to feed from the human carnage, tearing off a quick mouthful of flesh before continuing desperately onwards. They were converging now, forced by instinct towards the remaining small knot of lads, who'd retreated to join the three girls whimpering beside the queen egg. He didn't want to watch, but he couldn't close his eyes. And still, there were no screams, not even from the girls, or from the hatchlings once they'd turned on each other. Not even when each dragonet looked pityingly across the sands at him, before vanishing forever.

And then the queen egg began to shake, and crack. He found he could close his eyes, now, and so he didn't see the moment she broke free of her shell.

Instead, he heard her, heard her need and hunger and blame, and it was all his fault. The girls who might have been her rider were dead, solely because Martonal wasn't good enough to Impress, to stop her clutchmates from reacting to their instinctive needs in the only way left to them. And she was hungry, so, so hungry, it was overwhelming her need for a rider too, but no, no carrion eater was she. Martonal squeezed his eyes shut even more tightly, knowing what was coming, hearing the hiss and slither of her feet on the sands.

The humming was fading, and then it stopped.

Had she gone? Had she followed her clutchmates into oblivion?

Martonal opened his eyes.

Saw a flash of gold lunging towards his throat.

Screamed.

And something connected with his head, hard and leathery and smelling sourly of feet. "Wha... what the?" Heart thumping, Martonal opened his eyes - properly this time - to the darkness of the candidate barracks.

"Shut up, deadglow, we're trying to sleep here," someone complained from a few beds over.

He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again, drawing in a ragged breath. Faranth! He was in the barracks, _the barracks_ , and that... _that_... had just been a bad dream. Oh Faranth, just a dream.

He lay silently on his bed for a few more minutes, listening to the snores and quiet breathing of the other boys and trying not to think, as he waited for the nightmare to fade slowly from his mind. As ridiculous as he knew it to be, it wasn't in a hurry to go.

Martonal took another deep breath, and summoned up his memory of the Hatching Ground, as he'd seen it the day before in the company of weyrwoman Erris. The eggs in his dream hadn't been arranged like Saerlith's clutch had been, nor had the sand been tended with Erris' care. Saerlith's clutch would hatch soon, today, and the dragons _would_ Impress, and it _wouldn't_ all go horribly, terribly wrong. And shard it, he wasn't going to stand there full of fear, or doing nothing other than blaming himself for things that weren't his fault while _dragons_ hatched all around him! What would _his_ dragon think of him if he did that, if it was there? Martonal smiled to himself in the dark. _His_ dragon would probably be more concerned about filling his belly, just like all the others!

Feeling a little better about himself, but unwilling to risk another dream, Martonal reached down the side of his bed to find his clothes and boots. He dressed quietly, then crept out of the barracks carrying his boots, before pulling them on and heading for the Lower Caverns. Waning Timor had just risen above the Weyr rim to the east, and Belior had already set, so he reckoned it was close to halfway between midnight and dawn. It was still too early for the kitchen staff to be up preparing the day's bread, but there'd be klah on the night hearth, and maybe a few stale sweetrolls to dunk in his mug.

As he'd expected, the Lower Caverns were deserted, the large expanse lit by only a handful of aging glow-baskets. Martonal made his way into the kitchen area. He lucked out right away with a couple of sweetrolls which were still soft enough to eat on the spot, but the night hearth had already been swept clean of ash and the large copper klah kettle emptied and set to one side for cleaning. He scanned around, and soon spotted a pair of large earthenware jugs accompanied by a stack of mugs on the very same side table where he'd found the rolls. There wasn't enough light to see what was in them, but his nose made a good guess at fruit juice in one and cold klah in the other. Success! Martonal poured himself a mug of the klah, and added three heaped spoons of sweetener - he'd bet his last mark that this late at night the drink would be as bitter as it ever got. He was halfway back to the barracks when he hit the dregs, and realised he'd underestimated how strong they were. Martonal briefly considered returning for a fourth spoon of sweetener, then decided to dump the last of his drink onto the dusty floor of the Weyrbowl. He'd had enough.

He was just shaking the last drops of klah free from his mug when he saw a dark shape descending to the Weyrbowl floor beside the Candidate barracks. A dragon, bronze or brown judging by the size. The rider slipped down from the back of the dragon's neck and stepped clear, allowing the great beast to launch himself skywards again. There was a sudden flare of light as the rider partially unshuttered a glow basket, before it was masked by his body as he made his way inside. Martonal hadn't been close enough to recognise the rider - not that he knew many people in the Weyr by sight anyway - but an arrival at this time of night had to be important. Had the dragon been the Weyrlingmaster's brown? He hurried onwards, only to pause as he reached the barracks door, wondering how best to explain his absence.

In those few moments of thought, he slowly noticed a few details that didn't seem quite right, not if it had been the Weyrlingmaster arriving. The barracks were still fairly quiet - he could hear footsteps, the odd rustle and clunk, hushed whispers - and there certainly hadn't been any more glows unshuttered other than the basket the rider had brought in with him. Martonal lifted his hand from where it had been about to push the door open and backed away out of the entrance porch, his mind working furiously. Whoever had arrived was taking pains not to make enough of a disturbance to wake the whole room. He'd woken some of the other boys, but not all of them. He hadn't brought anything in with him other than the glows... so he'd be taking the Candidates he'd roused _out_ of the barracks instead? And if Martonal didn't fancy walking in on him, simply waiting around in the Weyrbowl would scarcely be any better. Martonal stepped quietly away, and made for the northern end of the building, where the privies and the washroom were located. If his absence _was_ noted, they'd expect to find him there anyway, but hopefully he could slip back into the barracks without anyone being any the wiser. Leaving the door slightly ajar, Martonal waited, concentrating more on the small sounds that reached his ears than on the narrow slice of the Weyrbowl visible to his eyes, and trying as hard as he might to ignore the pungent smell left behind by the last Candidate to use the facillities. He could hear the door when it opened well enough, and chances were, no-one would come that way anyway.

Mere moments later, he found himself proved wrong. The barracks door gave the expected low creak as it was opened, booted feet scuffled across the dusty ground, and then first one figure, then several more, passed before his view. He couldn't be certain of the first boy, but he thought it looked like Niko. The next two were also little more than silhouettes, but still looked so alike that there was no-one else they could be other than the twins from South Telgar. Fourth came Campen, holding the glowbasket, with Gallogren walking beside him.

The last person in the group was Gallogren's brother, the bronzerider E'gall.


	13. Chapter 13

The footsteps died away into silence, and Martonal dared to breathe again. Gallogren and his brother. Niko. Campen. The South Telgar twins. All traipsing across the Weyrbowl in the middle of the night. Why? And where could they possibly be going? The Weyrlingmaster and his assistants had weyrs to the south, between the barracks and the lower caverns. Next came the Queens' weyrs, the Weyrleaders' quarters and the Hatching sands. Northwards were only the empty Weyrling barracks and the infirmary, then a long expanse of dragon weyrs stretching around the edge of the feeding grounds and the Weyr lake. No-one would take candidates to the dragon infirmary in the dead of night; E'gall was either taking them on a very long, dark walk, or heading for the Weyrling barracks.

Martonal risked a peek around the door, just in time to see the group disappearing through the entrance to the empty barracks. So, he'd guessed right, and that answered the question of _where_. Why, though? On that score he was still none the wiser. He slipped off his boots and let them drop to the ground. He ought to be heading back to bed, not sneaking around after his peers, and it really wasn't any of his business... but he simply couldn't damp down his curiousity. The thought of going back to sleep while E'gall and Gallogren and the rest were... what? Well, that was the problem, wasn't it? Martonal walked as softly as he could towards the Weyrling barracks, wondering what the others were up to, and what the young dragonrider wanted them for. Or maybe _for them_? He might not like E'gall in the slightest, but a dragonrider he was, with a brother just as keen to Impress as every other Candidate. Impression was all that mattered, and with the eggs now so close to hatching, what else could E'gall be concerned about but his brother's chances?

Except... what was left to be said? Martonal himself had only been in the Weyr a day and a half, but he'd heard the 'What To Do When The Eggs Hatch' speech four or five times already, and he didn't think it had changed at all from the last time he'd stood for Impression. Think positive, welcoming thoughts, don't be afraid, and _don't_ get in the hatchlings' way if they want someone else. You won't mistake Impression when it happens, but try not to be overwhelmed by your dragon's hunger - they won't starve between their egg and the meat waiting for them outside, and they don't need to rush their food, no matter what they tell you about how horribly hungry they are. Last time, someone had asked one of the Weyrlingmaster's assistants if there really wasn't anything more to Impression than just being there. Martonal still remembered how the dragonrider had laughed, before telling them that yes, being there really was all they needed to worry about - Impression was the easy bit, and it was only after that, when they became Weyrlings, that all the real problems would start.

Ahead, soft light was spilling out through the shuttered windows of the Weyrling barracks. Martonal was within half a dragonlength of them, and could already make out the odd word of conversation from inside. He ducked down to a crouch as he reached the edge of the building and scurried past the closed door, making for a spot beneath the third window along which seemed to be the brightest lit from within. He eased himself carefully down to the ground, and rested his back against the wall. There was only one person speaking inside, and he was pretty sure it was E'gall... and he seemed to be repeating the very same brief lecture that Martonal had just been thinking of.

"...may Impress the person right next to his shell, or someone on the far side of the Sands. You've been told you'll know pretty quick if he wants you, and if there's any doubt, to step aside. None of you have doubts though, do you?"

"No!" the boys answered in chorus.

"Good. Because none of you are going to need them." The certainty in E'gall's voice was absolute, and as the dragonrider kept talking, it quickly became very obvious to Martonal that this was _not_ the standard Candidate pep-talk. "You two may not be family like Gally and the twins, but I've heard good things from Lords Arkorik and Fenren about you. Gally tells me you're all decent lads who more than deserve the dragons you were Searched for, and all of you are good Blood, besides. Sure, dragons don't care if your father was Lord Holder or the lowest of drudges, but _we don't forget our own_. You know why you're out here. We're going to make sure you Impress. My father Gr'gall and great-uncle Grentham knew this trick, and Grentham told me before I Stood. Now I'm sharing it with Gally and the rest of you. But I'm not taking you any further until we've got a  
few things clear."

Faranth! E'gall could _make sure_ Gallogren and the others Impressed? And _Lord_ Grentham, of South Telgar Hold, was E'gall's great-uncle? Even though he'd half expected something like this when he'd followed them out here, Martonal still couldn't quite believe his ears.

"There'll be no talk," E'gall continued. "Not now, not on the Sands, and certainly not afterwards. Tonight never happened. Ask as many questions as you need to now, but I'll have your words on that first of all. Is that clear?"

Merely listening was no longer enough. Martonal hauled himself to his feet as the boys voiced their agreement one by one, and peered through the cracks in the shutters. Surely it was dark enough outside that he wouldn't be seen? Inside, E'gall was standing expectantly before Campen, who hadn't yet spoken. As Martonal watched, one of the twins from South Telgar nudged him.

"Having second thoughts?" E'gall said, his voice dangerously soft. "Don't you _want_ to Impress?"

Campen's fair skin flushed slightly, and he shook his head. "I want to know more of what we're about to do first."

"What do you _think_ you're going to do? Didn't Gall tell you?"

"He's taking us to the eggs, deadglow!"

Martonal stifled a gasp as he heard Niko's hissed words. The eggs? In the middle of the night, while everyone was asleep? Campen's answer spared him the need to puzzle it out any further for himself.

"Gallogren told us you could see that we Impressed, and get the dragons we wanted, too. And you're Weyrbred as well as Holder blood - a bronzerider, no less - so _obviously_ we're not going to do anything that would harm the eggs. On the other hand, you _do_ have us sneaking furtively around in the middle of the night, which doesn't fill me with confidence that D'finter or the Weyrleaders would really _approve_ of what we're about to do. I want some guarantees."

"You've got some nerve, lordling. I'm about to do you the biggest favour of your life. Do you want to Impress or not?"

"I'll hold my tongue."

"Good."

E'gall paced around, eying the candidates. Martonal shrank back as the rider's gaze passed his window, fearful of being seen, but E'gall's face showed no sign that he'd seen him. "I can't promise you'll all walk away as bronzeriders," he said, "but you'll have a better chance by far than you would do otherwise, better than the other Candidates. If you've got it in you, you'll Impress the dragon you want to for sure. You were Searched, weren't you?"

There was a murmer of agreement from the boys, but it was Niko, not Campen, who was the first to ask for more details. "So what do we do... Sir?"

"We're going onto the Sands, _quietly_ mind, and you're going to get close to the eggs. Saerlith wouldn't wake at this time of night if half the Weyr bellowed at her - short of the eggs actually hatching, that is - but that's no reason not to be careful. She's got the eggs in three groups, so you'll go in no more than three at once. Gall, Tenesh and Hamesh first, and then the two of you next. You each pick a group of eggs. Go in, touch them, stroke them, think at them, introduce yourself to them - in your heads, not out loud - make yourself _believe_ that you're their rider. Then make damn sure you stand near those eggs when they hatch. They _will_ look to you first, before the other Candidates, and Impress you if you suit."

Martonal listened in growing dismay. Even thinking of touching an unhatched egg felt kind of sacriligious. E'gall sounded pretty convinced that this would give his brother and the others an advantage over the other candidates, and that was hardly fair! Everyone said that the Weyrs were different, that rank didn't matter to the dragons... but the riders were people just like those in Hold and Crafthall. And to try and impose a choice on a dragonet inside the shell? Was that right, in any way at all?

Within the Weyrling barracks, the other candidates were also reacting to E'gall's words.

"Is that all there is to it?" Gallogren had his back to Martonal, but the tone of his words was easily expressive enough to convey his disbelief.

E'gall nodded. "That's all. But don't you dare think this is easy. We've been watching Saerlith for days for you!"

"But how do we know which eggs hold the right..." Niko trailed off as the dragonrider turned his attention to him.

"Bronzes? You all want bronzes, don't you?"

Niko nodded. "So how do we tell?"

"You don't."

That wasn't an answer Martonal would have expected E'gall to give, and from the confused looks on the faces of the other boys he could see, he wasn't alone. But then Campen's eyes widened, and he let out a short exclamation. "Oh!"

The bronzerider had no interest in waiting to see if anyone else could figure it out, and started to explain. "That's why there's only a few of you. You need to... introduce yourself... to more than one egg."

"Don't put them in just the one basket, eh?" Campen said.

"Exactly. Chances are good, though, the dragon you want will be in one of them."

And then one of the twins asked the question that had been slowly growing in the back of Martonal's mind. "But what if it's a green that comes for me first, or a blue?"

Gallogren answered without a pause. "Just close your mind to it. It'll find someone else. Just like they normally do."

Except when they don't, Martonal thought. And what if...

Inside the barracks, E'gall shrugged. "How would I know? Gerth was first to crack his shell, and he came right to me."

Martonal's fingers tightened painfully on the stone window sill. What if the blue that wants you, that wants you and _only_ you...

"It works. Now do you have any more inane questions, or shall we get on with this? Come on."

...What if he can't find you? Oh Faranth! What if you've _already Impressed_?


	14. Chapter 14

_What happens to the dragon that wants you... if you've already Impressed?_

His vision blurring, his eyes stinging, Martonal tried and failed to think of a different answer to his own question than the one he already knew. The answer he'd seen play out right in front of him here at Igen Weyr, and again and again in his dreams over the Turns since. What happens? What happens when a dragon _can't_ Impress?

He swore under his breath. It was wrong, deadly wrong, what E'gall was encouraging his brother and the others to do. And it absolutely had to be stopped. When the door to the barracks opened and E'gall stepped through, Martonal was standing outside, waiting for him.

"What the flaming... What are YOU doing here?"

The bronzerider tried to shove him aside, but Martonal stood his ground, staring him squarely in the face. "I've got a question for you, E'gall," he said. "I hope you don't think it's too _inane_. What did it feel like, watching that blue dragon dying in front of me, _knowing_ that he was looking for YOU all along?"

E'gall's face paled visibly, even in the dim moonlight. "You've been out here spying on us? The whole time?"

"Didn't you stop to think about what you were doing? Didn't you _care_? Making dragons _want_ you in their shells, denying them the choice they needed?"

"They had a choice! There were other Candidates. _You_ were one of them."

"Not enough! Choice, or Candidates."

"This is none of your business. Candidate." E'gall pushed past him out into the Weyrbowl.

"Yeah, shut it Martonal," Gallogren said as he followed his brother. "You shouldn't even _be_ here."

"And the rest of you should? 'Sneaking furtively around the Weyrbowl', wasn't it, Campen?" Martonal turned away from the barracks and called out to the departing bronzerider. "I want an answer, E'gall."

E'gall stopped, and turned. His lips twisted silently for a few seconds before he spoke, emphasising each word in turn. "There were other candidates."

"Is that all you can say? Are you that much of an _idiot_ that you don't understand what you've done?

"How _dare_ you speak to a dragonrider like that?"

E'gall looked furious, but Martonal couldn't care less. "It was nothing to do with me at all," he said, more to himself than to the bronzerider. He'd just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, nothing worse than that. But no further sense of relief came with that knowledge - nothing could negate the hurt and self-recrimination he'd held stifled inside for Turns, nor ease his heart any more than the forgiveness he'd already found within himself. Instead, there was the sinking dread that he might indeed have to face the same events all over again, standing powerless in the face of a dragon's ultimate anguish.

Not if he could help it!

"It was you, _always_ you!" Martonal said as he approached E'gall. "How can you live with yourself? You caused the _death_ of a dragon! How can you let this go ahead, risk more of their lives?

"What do you know?" E'gall snarled.

"Enough. This isn't going to happen again. I _will not_ let you do this." It suddenly occurred to Martonal, as he watched a grim smile appear on the bronzerider's face, that he didn't actually have any plan of action beyond that very moment. The idea that E'gall _wouldn't_ see the sense in his words hadn't even crossed his mind. The man was a dragonrider, dedicated to saving lives - it was impossible, surely, that he'd still go ahead with his scheme in the face of what Martonal had said.

E'gall shifted his gaze to the other boys standing behind Martonal. "Hear that, you lot? He wants to stop you Impressing."

"What!"

Martonal ignored the outcries behind him, trying to figure out something, anything that would work.

"He's crazed," E'gall said. "He doesn't care about your dragons. He's just desperate."

"Desperate, huh?" Martonal shook his head in disbelief. Although he _was_ starting to feel a little desperate now. What else could he do?

"He's going to get your dragons killed!"

Martonal focused on the dragonrider, determined to make one last attempt at stopping this crime at the source. If that was the best line E'gall could come up with, maybe there was still some hope he could get through to him. "E'gall. Listen to me, please. You _can't_ do this, you know you can't."

E'gall's smile broadened. "Oh? Try telling your _friends_ what they can and can't do."

The faces of the boys surrounding Martonal told him _exactly_ how well that would work.

"He's going to see that we Impress, Martonal," said Niko. "What's wrong with that?"

"You can't stop us," one of the twins added. "You've no right!"

"I have to." E'gall clearly _was_ a lost cause after all, but maybe he could get through to some of the other boys? "You'll be endangering the clutch. I'm not going to stand aside and watch another dragon die, shard it!"

"No we're not," Gallogren said. "We're Candidates, we're going to Impress them. Unlike _you_. If anyone's endangering the eggs, you are. You shouldn't even _be_ here. And if you don't get out of our way, maybe _we'll_ endanger _you_!"

"Well, candidate," E'gall drawled. "What are you going to do?"

"Stop you, like I said." Somehow.

"There's more of us than there are of you," Niko said, clenching his fists.

Martonal stood his ground. The atmosphere had chilled, noticeably, and it was certainly true that there were more of them. Too many to fight, even discounting the dragonrider. Niko wasn't much of a runner though, and the twins, while tall, were also more than slightly fat. Campen had a weak belly but a quick mind; Martonal had no idea how athletic the boy was, but if he could convince him... "Campen? Can't you see that this is _wrong_? Maybe, maybe if everyone got this chance it'd work out okay, but like this? Look what happened last time round. A dragon _died._ Because of him!"

"I'm going to Impress, Mar. What do you want me to do? Throw it all away?"

"You know this isn't right."

The boy sighed and looked away. " _Honour those the dragons heed. In thought and favour, word and deed._ You expect me to believe you, over a dragonrider?"

Was that enough of a crack? "Yes."

Campen shook his head. "I'm going to Impress, Mar. And I gave him my word. My word, on my silence, that tonight never happened - whether I'm there or not. I _will_ Impress, but I don't _need_ this kind of trickery to do it. "

Sudden hope flared in Martonal's heart at Campen's words, only to fade as the boy continued. "But don't think for a minute I'm going to help you. Stay out here, and you're on your own, Martonal. I'm going to bed, and if you've any sense at all you'll leave them to it and do the same. Tonight never happened. Is that good enough for you, E'gall?"

The bronzerider shrugged. "Your loss. _You_ can go."

It was pretty clear to Martonal that the dragonrider's dismissal didn't apply to him, but it was well past time to cut his losses and run. He let his shoulders slump as Campen walked away, and purposefully failed to meet E'gall's eyes before turning to follow the other Candidate. "Wait for me, Campen," he said.

"Where do you think you're going?" E'gall said as he walked past

Martonal kept walking. "Bed." That wasn't a lie; he fully intended to get back into one eventually. All he needed was a little bit of distance, enough of a head start to make a run for it. The Weyrlingmaster's weyr was closest, and surely he was the best person to wake... or maybe he should cut across the bowl and go for weyrwoman Erris? Or the Weyrleaders themselves?

Behind him, E'gall started to swear. "Gally, take them to the Sands. You know what to do. And be quick about it! Martonal. You can stop RIGHT NOW!"

Martonal broke into a run, hoping desperately that he had the head start he needed. "I'd sooner go to the Red Star than listen to you, E'gall," he shouted as he overtook Campen at the entrance to the barracks. He could hear the dragonrider running after him, but it didn't matter; he could make it to D'finter's weyr before E'gall at the very least. The rider knew it too, for sure - Martonal didn't dare look back, but he couldn't hear the other man running any more. Just the rushing of blood in his ears, the syncopated thump of his own heart and feet, and a sudden series of dull claps that sounded like a Gather flag flapping in a stiff wind... or dragonwings.

Oh Faranth! He'd forgotten about E'gall's dragon.

The next moment a sharp weight took him in the back, and sent him sprawling across the ground.


	15. Chapter 15

Flat on the ground, Martonal gulped hungrily at the air. A dull pain filled his lungs, and he could feel a growing sharp prickling from his hands and knees, where they'd been badly grazed by his landing. His nose was smarting the most, though not so blindingly as to suggest that it might be broken, and he could taste blood in his mouth from where he'd bitten his own lip. A light weight was resting on his back. The dragon! Acting instinctively, Martonal pulled his arms back towards his chest and tried to push himself up on his knuckles, but E'gall's dragon was more than ready for that. The pressure holding him down intensified, and now he could feel individual clawpoints digging through his shirt. He let his chest drop to the ground again and flexed his hands between each shallow breath, doing what he could to ease the growing ache within them while he waited to get his wind back.

A skittering of small pebbles against his face and arms announced the dragonrider's arrival. Martonal twisted his head to look up at him.

"You just couldn't leave well enough alone, could you?"

Martonal didn't yet have the lung power for a decent reply, but that didn't matter in the slightest. What he _could_ manage to choke out hoarsely between gasps was well deserved and more than eloquent enough for his purposes.

"Piss. Off."

E'gall merely scowled back at him. Martonal took another gulp of air; his breathing was getting easier, but far too slowly. There was no way he'd be able to call out for help any time soon, not loudly enough that someone would hear him. If only Campen would change his mind about getting involved, or if someone else - anyone! - would wake up.

The dragonrider disappeared from Martonal's field of view. He heard a faint jingling, followed by the slither of leather onto the ground - E'gall was unbuckling some of the dragon's harness. Martonal would never have recognised the sound for what it was had he not spent hours that very afternoon cleaning flying straps with the other Candidates. A few seconds later Martonal felt a tug at one of his socks, lifting his leg into the air. He tried to kick out, then grunted in pain as the sock suddenly slipped free and his bruised limb fell to the ground again. The rider's hands moved on to his waist, pulling at his shirt. Martonal heard it tear, and then E'gall moved again, this time to crouch beside his head. The dragonrider reached out, grabbing a handful of Martonal's hair and using it to haul his head upwards.

Compared with his not-quite-broken nose, pulled hair was easily ignored. Martonal glared silently back at E'gall, but then the dragonrider tightened his fist and twisted it, and Martonal couldn't help but gasp. Before he could bat the E'gall's free hand away, a mouthful of missing sock was shoved swiftly past his teeth, and his head shoved forcefully back into the dirt. The contact between Martonal's nose and the ground was momentarily stunning, and Martonal gave a muffled grunt of pain. Any other complaint he could have made was soon stifled even further, as E'gall used the strip of cloth he'd torn free from Martonal's shirt to bind his mouth securely.

"Ah, that's better."

The pressure of the dragon's foot on his upper back held still Martonal pinned firmly to the ground. He could barely move, let alone wriggle free. He attempted to pull the gag away from his mouth, but E'gall grabbed his wrists and forced his arms away, pulling them first out to the sides, then back down to his hips. The dragon shifted, repositioning his talons to hold Martonal's arms in place, before lifting him ever so slightly into the air. Something slid beneath Martonal's belly - one of the dragon's flying straps, he realised, as the leather was pulled tight around his arms and torso. What was E'gall going to do? Hold him out of action somewhere until  
Gallogren and the others had had their chance at the eggs? Until after the Hatching? It couldn't be far, not if he'd used his flying straps to bind him. He tried to hold his arms wide, giving himself enough slack in the leather that he'd be able to work his way loose from his bonds, but E'gall wasn't fool enough to fall for it. Notch by notch, the strap was tightened, until finally E'gall was satisfied with his work.

The dragon lifted his foot away, and Martonal rolled to his side. E'gall crouched beside his head again, and leaned close enough to whisper in his ear.

"I know just what to do with a fardling piece of shit like you. A short hop _between_ , and it'll _all_ be over for you. _Threadbait_."

Martonal tried and failed to meet E'gall's eyes, desperately hoping that he was mistaken about what the dragonrider intended. A short hop _between_. And then? All over.

Silhouetted by rising Timor, E'gall's face was deeply shadowed. He rose, then turned away to mount his dragon, using the dragon's raised forelimb for assistance in the absence of the hand- and toe-holds of his flying straps. "Take a good look, why don't you," he said as he finally hauled himself into place between the dragon's neck ridges. "You won't be seeing it again."

Even knowing it was futile, Martonal writhed wildly against his bonds, rolling again, terror swelling within his mind. Oh Faranth! E'gall _was_ going to take him _between_ , take him _between_ and leave him there to die! He couldn't do that, he couldn't...

There was a sudden jerk as the dragon grabbed the free end of the long leather strap with his forepaws, pulling Martonal back round onto his front and dragging him painfully a few body lengths over the ground. He heard the dragon's wings unfurl ready to take that first all important downstroke, then was hauled roughly into the air as the dragon launched himself skywards. Four wingbeats, five, six. Martonal kicked out, wishing he could scream, and managed to tip himself forwards. That was enough for him to catch sight of the receding ground, and he immediately decided to stop struggling. Slipping free now would be fatal. Soon they'd be level with the Weyr's rim, more than high enough for the dragon to go _between_ , but maybe E'gall had lied, maybe he was just going to dump him out of sight in one of the disused upper weyrs. Oh please, let it be that! Surely even E'gall wouldn't be idiot enough to go _between_ with only his grip on the dragon's neck ridge keeping him in place? Martonal caught a brief glimpse of the Star Stones as he spun in the air beneath the bronze dragon's belly. It wouldn't be long now.

And without any further warning, everything vanished, all sight and sound and senses cutting out into blackness, and the ultimate soul-chilling cold of _between_.

No, no, no, no, no!

There was no sensation of his own weight any more. No pull of leather linking him to the dragon above, nor any meaning to the concepts of up or down. No pain, but the relief from it was horrible to comprehend. No air to breathe, but nor could Martonal feel any need for it as yet. Would he even feel the burning of his lungs, the ache in his brain as he died? Would he just stop? Or just keep going, going slowly mad in this freezing dark nothingness?

Nothing was stopping his screams now, and he _knew_ he was screaming, even without any sense of having a body or lungs or mouth to scream with, or ears to hear. And then the pain returned, and he was falling, dropping, and the darkness was only darkness, nothing more. There was wind and rain rushing past him, and his face was cold and wet. Tension abruptly returned to the leather strap holding him, and he spun and arced around in the air once more as the dragon spiraled, following his chosen course downwards to the ground.

Feeling nauseous, Martonal closed his eyes, but that didn't help much at all. The swift plummet finally steadied as the dragon backwinged, bellowing, and Martonal found himself being lowered not ungently to the ground. It was hard and solid beneath him, even if his bare foot _was_ resting in a puddle. As he lay there he realised that he'd soiled himself _between_ , and that the wetness trickling down his face wasn't just from the rain. But he was alive, still alive. Oh Faranth, he was still alive. But where?

The bronze dragon bellowed once again. Martonal opened his eyes and lifted his head to see a woman walking towards the dragon, carrying a glowbasket.

Was that...?

"What tidings, Dragonrider? Is there trouble?" the woman said.

It _was_ Lexa. Lexa! He was back at Green Lake Hold. Home. They were in the main courtyard, not far from the arched entrance into the Hold's deep caverns, and it was raining. So strange - it rarely rained so much at this time of year, and although he was hardly comfortable, the feeling of the cool droplets hitting his face was one of the best things he could imagine.

Lexa drew closer and, seeing Martonal, gasped and lifted a hand to her face in dismay.

"Martonal! What have you done?"


	16. Chapter 16

"Wake your Holder, woman," E'gall called out. "Or Gerth will do it for you."

"He's already on his way." Lexa hurried back towards the Hold, calling out loudly as she went. "Garrent? Come outside, Garrent, quickly. It's about Martonal. The dragonriders have brought him back again."

As Martonal watched, a second shadow stretched out into the courtyard, soon followed by the burly figure of Holder Garrent himself.

"I see that, Lexa. My greetings to you, dragonrider. But shells, man, what's the boy done? I came as quick as I could; surely there was no need to wake the whole..."

"He's a disgrace to your Hold, and he's shamed you all. We don't accept _dragonkillers_ at Igen Weyr.

"No!" Garrent said. "How? Did something happen at the hatching?"

Martonal could hear the stunned disbelief in his tone, but knew that it wouldn't be there for long, not once E'gall had given them his version of events. The dragonrider was quick to fill in the details, thick with lies and elaboration, but with enough of a core of truth that Martonal would never be able to clear his name. By the time he'd finished, a small crowd had gathered close to the Hold entrance, sheltering from the rain under the overhanging rock. Not one of them would speak up before Garrent had had his say, Martonal knew. Judgment was the Holder's job.

Garrent took a single step towards Martonal, then stopped, shaking his head. "What would the Weyr have us do? Is he to be exiled? What can we offer you in recompense?" he asked E'gall.

"Do whatever you want with him. Igen Weyr is _done_ with him."

While the bronzerider was speaking, one of the people standing beside the entrance arch left the group and walked briskly over to Martonal. "Is that so?" the new arrival drawled. He dropped down to a crouch beside him, and loosened the leather strap holding Martonal's arms.

"Absolutely," E'gall said. "And if he ever shows his face to a dragon again, we'll _flame him to ashes where he stands_!"

Garrent grunted in surprise on hearing the bronzerider's words, and there were similar noises from the growing crowd of Holdfolk. Martonal ignored them all - E'gall had done his worst already. He felt sick with heartbreak - his dreams had been shattered once again, and now he'd likely end up Shunned and Holdless too. But he was alive, and he wasn't going to give E'gall the pleasure of seeing him break down completely. He pulled his stiff and aching arms free, and pushed himself backwards onto his hands and knees. Out of the corner of his eyes, he caught a glimpse of the man beside him unsheathing a belt knife. Martonal recoiled, but the man grabbed the cloth binding his mouth before he could move out of reach, and with a swift cut pulled it free from his face.

"Bring a light over, Headwoman," the man said. "He's hurt. And no dragonkiller either, whatever nonsense the braggart up there spouts out next."

"Oh, so you're _all_ a bunch of inbred scoundrels, are you?"

Martonal spat the sock out of his mouth, and wiped the rain off his face. As Lexa carried her glowbasket closer, he finally saw the man's face properly, and couldn't help but sob in relief. What was _he_ doing here?

Up on his dragon, E'gall was still busy jeering. "Be glad this isn't a Pass, _Holders_. Be glad that Thread isn't fa..." And then he too fell silent as the man - B'dril! - looked up at him.

"E'gall. That's _quite_ enough." He bent down to scoop up the discarded leather, and chucked it forcefully into the other bronzerider's arms. "I'll have an explanation out of you for this, and don't think I'll be letting your behaviour slide. _Threatening_ Holders!"

"You're not _my_ Wingleader."

Martonal couldn't believe his change in fortune, but B'dril's unexpected appearance also served to remind him of the trouble still ongoing back at Igen Weyr. As wonderful as it was to have the other bronzerider championing his cause, there simply wasn't the time for it, not now. "B'dril, you have to stop them, please," he said. "They're going to influence the eggs."

"What?"

"The boy's mad, B'dril. He's a danger to everyone, even himself. He's been spouting nonsense like that all night, causing trouble for the other candidates, trying to..."

Martonal refused to let E'gall shout him down. "They're going to sneak in and touch them, reach for them, influence them in the shell. Just like E'gall did to the eggs three Turns ago, to Gerth and that blue and who knows how many other dragons... and if the others were somehow lucky enough to find someone else, it's no thanks to him. It wasn't my fault. It was never my fault. Shards, you HAVE to stop them, it CAN'T happen again!"

"He's lying. He's CRAZED!"

B'dril closed his eyes, and his face stilled. "Get back to the Weyr, rider. You've done enough ill for one night. And I don't have time to waste on you now." He opened his eyes again and shot E'gall a glare, but it was the bronze dragon himself who recoiled, eyes whirling yellow in distress as he sidled backwards, splashing through several puddles before springing into the air.

"B'dril, sir, you must beli-"

"I do, boy." He grasped Martonal's arm, and helped him up. "There've been rumours in the past, snippets of things rarely mentioned, but they're never there when you actually go and look for them. Some of us wondered... but there was never any proof! Have you proof?"

"Only what I heard from his own lips."

"What about names?"

"Yes, but please, they'll be in there now, they'll..."

"Martonal, it's all in hand. Callinth will have woken Saerlith by now, and if they try anything, they'll be caught. And stopped." The bronzerider's face suddenly seemed to close in on itself. "And stopped, Fardling threadbait fools! Holder Garrent!"

Stopped! Martonal felt almost dizzy at the sense of relief that flooded through him.

"Wingleader, I confess to being somewhat confused," Garrent said as he joined them. "Salya woke me, told me there was a dragonrider here to see me, and then there was all that _bellowing_. Got down here right away, just in time for all of this to happen. Didn't see you get here, didn't even know it WAS you. You... you didn't arrive with the other dragonrider, did you?"

B'dril shook his head and laughed coldly. "No, I was here before him. He must have arrived right after Callinth and the rest of my wing left, more's the pity. These days, there're never enough Candidates, you see. And then the ones you DO find rule themselves out of contention."

"I'm sorry that Martonal..."

"Oh no, not him! He'll be coming back to the Weyr, won't you, boy?"

Martonal nodded.

"No, we overlooked a number of possible Candidates on our Search. They didn't meet our usual criteria, but those have changed, and I want them back to the Weyr yesterday. That was what I came to speak to you about, why your headwoman sent someone to wake you. Poor courtesy on my behalf; my wing's already collecting the Candidate in question from one of your outlying cotholds. And then E'gall landed a completely different mess in my lap."

"Oh! Well, we never turn a Search away, even at this time of night. It's an honour, Wingleader, like as always. But then... then what..." Garrent gestured expansively. "What _was_ it about? What did he _do_ to you, boy?"

"It's not as bad as it looks," Martonal said. "He just... he..." For some reason, he couldn't stop himself from trembling. But the eggs were safe, E'gall was gone, and he was alive and would be heading back to the Weyr again soon for the Hatching. What was wrong with him?

"Headwoman, some klah and a blanket," B'dril said. He eyed Martonal sympathetically. "Clean clothes too?"

Martonal winced, and flushed. "Please."

Lexa nodded. "I'll see to it, and some boots as well. But bring him inside, please!" Leaving the glow basket on the ground beside Garrent, she hurried quickly back into the Hold.

"Take your time, lad," B'dril said. "You've had a bad night."

"He told me... I know it sounds ridiculous, but I thought he was going to have his dragon drop me _between_."

Garrent drew in a hiss of breath through his teeth. "Shells! Not as bad as it looks? Come on boy, lets get you inside." He wrapped an arm across Martonal's shoulder and started to lead him towards the Hold, leaving the bronzerider to pick up the glowbasket and follow on behind.

Martonal took a few steps, and then he remembered what B'dril had said about his reason for being there in Green Lake right in time to save everything. He stopped and spun round, a broad smile lighting up his face for the first time since he'd woken.

"It's Sildea, it IS! You've Searched her after all!"

B'dril smiled back at him. "Of course we have. Why else would I be here?"


	17. Chapter 17

"We'll be going _between_ soon," J'saw called over his shoulder. "Are you both ready? Five slow heartbeats, remember, or ten if you're a bit nervous!"

Nestled behind the dragonrider, Sildea gave the straps linking her belt to the dragon a quick tug with one hand, then linked her arms tightly around J'saw's waist again. "Ready!"

"Me too," Martonal said. He had a firm grip on the neck ridge behind Sildea, as well as straps of his own, but still wasn't really looking forward to going _between_ again. It couldn't possibly be as bad as it had been last time round though - and this time, he was determined to emerge with clean trousers. Even so, he was glad that B'dril had left them at Green Lake Hold with J'saw for the past few hours, rather than taking them along with the rest of his Wing while they hunted down his last potential Candidate. Judging by the length of time they'd spent waiting at the Hold, she hadn't been easy to find! He'd appreciated the delay at first - it had given more than enough time to get clean, and to explain to Sildea how he'd ended up in such a predicament - but as the night wore on, he'd started to wonder if they'd end up missing the Hatching. Weyrwoman Erris had said the eggs would most likely hatch early that morning, but even with a dragonrider on hand, could they get back to the Weyr quickly enough? J'saw had laughed at that. The eggs, apparently, were in no danger of hatching just yet. Sildea had been more concerned by the fact that she'd missed all the classes that the other Candidates had had. Martonal had growing suspicions that most of the classes were as much a way of keeping the Candidates occupied as they were essential training for future dragonriders, but at J'saw's prompting he'd talked her through them all just the same. It was strange to be on the other side of the oft-repeated 'what to do when the eggs hatch' speech, but at least he'd heard it enough to be certain of passing it on accurately. Sildea took it all in thoughtfully, remarking only that at least she only had the green dragons to look out for.

The dragonrider acknowledged their answers with a nod, and barely a breath later they'd left the skies above Green Lake Hold. As dark as it had been at that hour, there was simply no comparison with the utter blackness of _between_. Martonal began a steady count downwards from ten, not realising that he was speaking aloud until they re-emerged into the sky high above Igen Weyr.

"-ive, four..."

He broke off to take a welcome breath of the dry, thin air. The sky was lighter here, with pink tendrils of cirrus extending from the east, where the sun would soon be rising. Far below, Igen Weyr was still shrouded in low mist and the shadows of night. Martonal gave Sildea a pat on the back. She twisted round to grin at him.

"That was so _strange_ , Mar. I really couldn't feel anything. Not like being numb - nothing at all!" She leaned a little way over to one side to peer down towards the Weyr. "We're awfully high, aren't we? Is tha... Ohh!"

Martonal felt his stomach lurch upwards as the blue dragon dropped in the air, and instinctively tightened his hold on the dragon. Sildea was equally quick to make a grab for J'saw's belt, pulling herself rigidly upright again.

"Just a thermal," J'saw yelled over the wind of their passage. "Nothing to worry about. Get a lot of them this time of year. Hang on; we'll be down soon."

If the bluerider's words had reassured Sildea at all, she didn't show many signs of it, stiffly holding herself close to J'saw's back. But perhaps Spellianth had sensed her unease, because the dragon's spiralling descent was slower and smoother than Martonal remembered it being two days previously. Was it really only two days ago that he'd first come back to Igen Weyr? It felt more like a lifetime.

The blue dragon landed lightly in the Weyrbowl no more than a dragonlength from the entrance to the Lower Caverns. J'saw helped Martonal and Sildea down to the ground, and led them both in. A scattering of tables held dragonriders and weyrfolk making an early breakfast, but Martonal's eyes were drawn to the two long tables either side of the passageway leading to the Headwoman's office, and the Candidates sitting at them. Gallogren wasn't there, nor Niko or the twins, but Campen was. He'd rested his head on his folded arms, and looked to be either asleep or deep in thought. R'ben was keeping a close watch on the male Candidates, while Headwoman Chassli and A'bret, the other assistant Weyrlingmaster, sat with the girls. Martonal recognised some of them as Candidates for the gold egg and another as Benneck, the drudge-in-disguise, but the rest must have been brought in for green hatchlings, much like Sildea.

"Another from B'dril?" Chassli rose from the table and walked over to greet them.

"Aye. And I've brought Martonal back again."

"Hmph." She narrowed her eyes, then raised a hand to cover a yawn. "You owe me a night of decent sleep, young man. Ah well. I needed an early start, if these eggs hatch as soon as Erris says they will. First things first though. Welcome to the Weyr, girl! What's your name?"

"Sildea."

"Sildea, that's a nice name," she said with a smile. "You won't have to shorten it if you Impress, unless you want to. But you will be needing a robe. Plenty of those to go round, but you'll have to hurry if you want to fuss over the right fit the way some of your peers have. Not that the hatchlings will mind if the shape doesn't suit, but try telling some of these ladies that!" She wrapped an arm around Martonal's cousin, and drew her away towards the table of girls, where a tall stack of folded white Impression robes waited.

A few of the other Candidates had taken notice of their arrival, from both tables. Martonal looked at J'saw and gestured at the boys. "Should I join the others?"

"Not yet," J'saw said. "You're wanted elsewhere. Come on."

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Martonal quickly realised that he was being taken to speak to the Weyrleaders, Ackla and T'ray.

"Well we needn't worry about the queen egg," the Weyrleader was saying. "She's got five good choices brought in on Search, two of our own, and all those other girls S'call and B'dril have been bringing in. It's the boys that matter. Twenty-four lads or twenty-eight, for twenty-two eggs... that's cutting it fine."

Weyrlingmaster D'finter was seated beside them, along with Weyrwoman Erris and another man, a bronzerider by his knots. Except for the Weyrlingmaster they were all dressed in fine clothes rather than riding gear - and Erris looked so different that Martonal hadn't recognised her until he'd almost reached them.

Ackla shook her head. "Twenty-four. And the girls, too."

"Twenty-four then," T'ray muttered in an exasperated tone.

Ackla ignored him, and lifted her hands to count off on her fingers. "Bennecka, two from S'call, and three from B'dril so far. That _was_ another of his that you just brought in, wasn't it, J'saw?"

"Aye, Weyrwoman."

"Oh good. Mayra and Irrianne are standing for the queen egg, but I think they've got just as good a chance to Impress a green. I may not know the other queen Candidates so well, but perhaps one or two of them will also suit. I've spoken to them all about it, so they're well prepared. If B'dril brings that last girl back in time, that's up to eleven more for the hatchlings to consider. I'd expect about that many greens in a clutch of this size at any rate."

"Assuming _some_ of the girls Impress, the greens at least should have a satisfactory choice," D'finter said. "We've got twenty four lads for the blues and browns and bronzes, and the other greens. It ought to be enough."

Martonal looked back over his shoulder and quickly counted up the Candidates sat on the other side of the room. The count didn't include Gallogren and the others, but it _would_ include him. That was good!

The Weyrleader sighed. "It'll have to do. No time to Search more boys out now."

"And here comes B'dril with the last of the girls." Ackla said. She smiled slightly, and took a sip from the klah mug resting on the table in front of her.

Erris was more forthright. "Cutting it a bit fine, aren't you?"

Martonal turned to see B'dril walking over to join them, trailing a long-legged girl in his wake. Beneath a clearly borrowed wherhide jacket she wore a runner's shorts and vest, and her dark hair was cut as short as a boy's.

"You _don't_ want to know how many different runner traces we overflew before we tracked this one down," B'dril said with a shake of his head. "Fruella, th-"

"Fru, please! I _have_ told you several times now." She sidled gracefully between him and the bench to perch on the table in front of the Weyrleaders. "And I'm _never_ late."

B'dril grimaced. "Fru, then. Fru, Weyrleaders T'ray and Ackla. D'finter, our Weyrlingmaster. Weyrwoman Erris, and I'mel, whose Harranth sired the Clutch. J'saw here is one of my wingriders, and Martonal's another Candidate."

Fru flashed Martonal a wide smile, one of her cheeks dimpling. "Well, I _am_ in good company," she said.

Martonal couldn't help grinning back at her. From the little he'd seen of her, he was pretty sure that Fru and Sildea would either be best friends in an instant, or fight like wherries.

Ignoring the girl's irreverant attitude, B'dril addressed the Weyrleaders again. "You wanted my report right away? Or can I take a few moments to deposit Fru with Chassli?"

"Oh, I can take myself," Fru insisted. "She's the one over there keeping all the clucking hens in order?"

"That is _Headwoman_ Chassli, yes," T'ray said.

"Right then. Thanks, B'dril, I'd better run." She squeezed past him, a loose hand trailing against his backside, and the bronzerider flinched slightly. She winked at Martonal as she passed. "See you on the Sands!"

Erris grunted a laugh. "Well, well."

"Damn girl has some funny ideas," B'dril muttered as he took a seat. "But Negth is pretty certain of her."

"Let's hope she's right," the Weyrleader said. "So. Martonal first, I think. Come forward, boy."

Martonal stepped up to the table, but it was Erris, not the Weyrleader, who addressed him next.

"Everyone else has had their chance to have their say. Now it's your turn. We'd like the full story, please."

He took a deep breath, and wondered where to start. How much did they already know? What had happened to the other boys, anyway? Were they still Candidates? B'dril hadn't asked him for names a second time, not once the Candidates on the Sands had been apprehended... but Campen had been involved as well. _Should_ he name him, and put the other boy's chance to Stand in jeopardy? He'd been Searched, and even if he hadn't helped Martonal, at least he hadn't gone off with the others... and there were barely enough Candidates as it was. Martonal risked another quick glance back at the Candidate tables, but Erris caught him at it.

"We're pretty sure we got the truth out of them all... eventually," she drawled. "Even Campen, if that's who you're concerned about. Smart boy, that one, enough to know that there are worse things one can do than break one's word."

"How did you know?"

Erris smiled and tapped a finger against her nose. "Another time. We don't have _all_ day, Martonal. Get started."

The past night's events were soon told, but judging by the questions he was asked, his listeners had already been familiar with most of the details. As he finished his tale, the Weyrleader leaned forwards, his face stern.

"What you say E'gall did, before the last hatching. Have you thought that maybe it didn't make any difference at all? That maybe that particular hatchling was never going to Impress you or anyone else, regardless of what happened while he was in the shell?"

Martonal wasn't certain of the point Weyrleader T'ray was trying to make, but it sounded almost as if he thought that Martonal shouldn't have taken any action at all. "Do you _believe_ that?"

"Why shouldn't I?" T'ray asked, and shrugged.

"But you can't _know_ that's how it happened. Not beyond all doubt."

"Nor can you."

"No, but me being _wrong_ doesn't make any difference. What if I'm right?" How come he couldn't see? Wasn't it obvious? Martonal abruptly realised that he'd raised his voice almost to the point of shouting, and flushed. "I'm sorry. But I wasn't going to stand aside and let it all happen all over again!" he finished more softly.

The Weyrleader opened his mouth to speak, but stopped as his Weyrwoman rested a hand on his arm.

"T'ray. You've pushed the boy hard enough already," Ackla said. "For what it's worth, Martonal, we _do_ agree with you. Igen is in your debt."

"May I ask... what will happen to them? To Gallogren, and Niko and the others?"

Erris shook her head. "Saerlith won't have them set one foot on the Sands for her clutch. But I'm sure you understand, Martonal, we can't afford to take any chances."

"They're being held in reserve," D'finter said.

"If they're needed, if a dragonet won't choose any of you on the Sands, we _will_ send them in then," the Weyrleader added. He gave Erris a pointed look, to which she rolled her eyes in reply.

"Oh, Saerlith won't cause any trouble if that's the case. Not that it'll even be an issue if the hatchlings take after her. Sensible dragon, she is."

"And that leaves you, Martonal." T'ray stetched and leaned back in his chair, "We have four fewer Candidates, thanks to your actions. Four. Think about that for a moment."

Was he really being blamed...? but no, that made no sense. The Weyrleader had already said that Gallogren and the others were being kept in reserve, in case the hatchlings _did_ fail to choose anyone else. The situation was no different to how it would have been otherwise, not as far as Candidate numbers went - and the eggs weren't at any risk either.

"Is there anything you'd do differently?"

Was there? No. Except... "Run faster, sir", Martonal said.

"Run... faster?"

"That might have made the difference," Martonal hastily explained. Perhaps he _had_ been a little cheeky, but he was almost too tired to think straight. "If I could have got back to the barracks, woken everyone, we might have stopped them _before_ they tried to get onto the Sands."

"I see. Now, J'saw..."

Martonal took a deep breath as T'ray turned his attention back to the Searchrider, glad that his interrogation finally seemed to be at an end. But his relief was short-lived; the Weyrleader's very next words raised a problem that Martonal hadn't even thought to consider.

"I've heard a lot of different opinions over this boy's _readiness_ to Stand. Erris expressed her own concerns to me yesterday, but quite a lot has happened since then."

"Yes sir, it has."

Martonal looked from face to face, horrified by what he was hearing. Perhaps it wasn't much of a surprise to imagine that E'gall had complained about him, or R'ben... but Erris? She winced as he caught her eye and shook her head slightly, but made no move to correct T'ray as the Weyrleader continued.

"Panjath told me earlier via Callinth that B'dril had you re-assessing the boy."

"You could say that. And it was Spellianth more than me sir, but yes, we have."

B'dril too? His heart sank. Hadn't he done enough? He'd conquered his own doubts, hard as it had been - wasn't that good enough for them?

"Good. And?"

"He's not the same young man we Searched, that's for sure. Nor the boy he was three Turns back. Still the same potential, but he's not stifling himself any more." J'saw gave Martonal a broad grin, and slapped him soundly on the back. "Don't get cocky now, Martonal, but I'll be wagering more Marks than I should on you." He nodded at the Weyrleaders. "Spellianth doesn't have any doubts, Sir."

"Nor do I." B'dril's voice was soft. "Are you angry at me, Martonal? Erris certainly was, after your meeting with her yesterday."

Martonal thought for a few seconds, and gave a low laugh. "A bit, yes. Did you _need_ to worry me like that?"

If B'dril had an answer for him, there was no opportunity for him to say it. Erris slapped both hands down on the table top and pushed herself up from her chair. In the same instant, the first faint strains of a low, steady hum could be heard from the dragons outside.

"It's time," Erris said.


	18. Chapter 18

The humming of the dragons was unmistakable. For a few brief moments, almost the entirety of Igen Weyr's lower caverns fell into an attentive silence - and then, one of the women breakfasting on the far side of the room sprang from her chair and stated the obvious.

"The eggs are hatching!"

By then, Martonal was already halfway across the cavern, the Weyrlingmaster following close behind him. There was no longer any turmoil to his thoughts and emotions, just the growing sweet ache of adrenaline in his belly and determination in his heart.

The other Candidates were all on their feet, milling around in excitement as those not already dressed for the Hatching pulled on their white robes. Albadril was joking with a couple of the other weyrbred boys, but broke off when he spotted Martonal approaching the crowd.

"I told you so! He's _not_ in disgrace like the others! Not that we know why... except for Campen, but he's not talking to anyone this morning... and what happened to your _face_?"

"I fell over... sort of," Martonal said. There wasn't really the time to go into all the details right now, and it they hadn't been told already, well, there was no harm in leaving things that way until after the Hatching.

"Back to join us, are you Martonal?" R'ben called out from across the table.

"So it seems, sir."

"You'll be wanting this then." R'ben scooped up the last unclaimed white robe from the bench beside him, and chucked it in Martonal's direction.

Martonal grabbed it from the air. In the corner of his eye, he could see Campen watching him thoughtfully, but by the time he'd pulled his robe over his head and turned to look at him properly the other boy was gone. Instead, he saw Sildea, looking so excited that he half expected her to start bouncing. There were dragonriders amongst the female candidates now - bronzeriders, there to collect the girls Searched for the queen egg. But where had Campen got to? He spun on the spot, scanning the rest of the group. There was still no sign of Campen, but Weyrlingmaster D'finter was in the process of climbing up onto one of the tables.

"Listen UP, everyone!" D'finter said. "The eggs won't hatch right away, but that's no excuse to dawdle. And there's no need to trample each other in the process, neither. When you're ready, get out into the Weyrbowl and form an orderly line. Orderly, mind!"

All around him, the Candidates started to move. The two other weyrboys left at a run, but Albadril hung back. "Are you coming, then?" Albadril said.

"Yeah - but can we wait for my cousin Sildea?"

"Oh, is that the girl you came in with?"

Martonal nodded. "Your da Searched her last night. Hey Sil, over here!"

Sildea was stuck behind a couple of slow-moving girls who looked to have taken the Weyrlingmaster's instructions about orderliness a little too seriously in Martonal's opinion. Beside her, wearing a matching expression of frustration and an equally shapeless robe that barely reached her knees was the runner girl, Fru. She said something to Sildea, then took her hand and together the two of them scrambled onto and over first the girls' table, and then the boys'. Sildea leapt down ahead of her, and grabbed Martonal into a quick hug before stepping back with a smile.

"Oh, Mar! Isn't this just... just... It's the _most_ exciting day of my life!"

Martonal grinned back at her. "Wait until you see the eggs then. Sil, this is Albadril. Albadril, my cousin Sildea - and Fru, isn't it?"

The runner nodded. "For now. Who knows what we'll all be called later, eh?"

"Can you two stand with us, or do you have to stick with the other girls?"

Albadril didn't give either girl a chance to answer. He sighed loudly, and said, "We'll be stuck at the back with them anyway if we don't move _now_. Come on!"

Outside, the bowl was still grey with early morning mist, and the candidates lining up in their white robes looked like nothing so much as flapping bed-sheets on laundry day. Martonal spotted finally spotted Campen standing with Gerrit amongst the other Candidates already out in the bowl, and led his group towards them. Campen looked tense - perhaps no more so than some of the other Candidates in their antipation of the Hatching, but surely not for that reason alone. Was there enough time to talk, to set things right again? He wanted to, if he could. A quick glance back at the lower caverns showed him D'finter shepherding the last of the Candidates into the bowl, while nearby the bronzerider I'mel was assisting Erris onto his bronze. A sudden flash of inspiration hit him, and he realised he knew exactly the right thing to say to Campen.

"Hey, Campen."

"Martonal, I..."

It was hard not to smile, but he wanted to get the joke out as seriously as he could manage. "No, me first. I was wondering - _do_ you still fancy your chances with weyrwoman Erris in a few years time?"

Albadril and Gerrit immediately creased into hilarity. Dumbstruck, Campen's jaw dropped... and then he was doubled over too, laughing along with the rest of them. It felt good to laugh again after all the stress of the last day, and Martonal could see that Campen felt the same way too. Fru and Sildea were sharing slightly confused looks with each other; Martonal promised himself he'd explain it to them later.

Gerrit suddenly straightened up and tried to pull a more sober expression, a sure sign that either D'finter or one of his assistants was on their way over. Martonal had almost stopped laughing by then, but the mere sight of the way the other boy sucked his cheeks in while biting his tongue was enough to set him off all over again. He hoped it wasn't R'ben - but it was.

The assistant weyrlingmaster shook his head disapprovingly. "Care to share?"

The boys collectively shook their heads, and Albadril choked out a quick "No, sir!".

"Then get into line, two by two, and get walking! Hatchings are _not_ funny. Of course, if you'd rather stay out here and arse around... No?" R'ben kept pace beside them as the line of Candidates slowly started to move. "I've half a mind to separate the lot of you, but there's no time for that now." And then, to Martonal's surprise, the gruff bluerider cracked a smile behind his beard. "Good luck, boys. Expect I'll be seeing more of you."

R'ben dropped back to join A'bret at the back of the group. The line of Candidates passed the set of steps leading up to the first of the queens' weyrs, then the second - which was bedecked with celebratory early spring blooms - before anyone dared speak again.

"Shells, Mar!" Campen said, "the woman's a complete _nightmare_! Look, I'm really sorry. I made some stupid decisions last night. But I never thought..."

"It's okay."

And it was, really.

"What did E'gall do to you?"

"Oh, he was kind enough to take me home to fetch my cousin."

Campen's brows creased momentarily as he read between the lines. "He was going to leave you there, was he?"

"I thought he was going to dump me halfway, to be honest."

"No!" Gerrit gasped from behind him.

"But B'dril was there, Searching my cousin Sildea, so it all worked out okay."

Campen let his feet carry him a little closer to Martonal, and dropped his voice to almost a whisper. "You stopped them, didn't you? Got warning to the dragons?"

Martonal nodded. "Callinth bespoke Saerlith. Just in time."

"If B'dril hadn't been there..." Campen groaned softly. "I should've listened to you. I'm so, so sor-"

"Hey! Just Impress one of them, okay? Gallogren and the others will have their chance if we can't, and personally, I'd rather that didn't happen."

"Really? Guess it's a good thing we've got all these girls here then."

"Changed your mind about the girls, have you?"

Campen gave a soft laugh. "Well, it's not like any of the girls are going to Impress my _bronze_ , are they? Besides... you know all those rumours everyone talks about, about weyrfolk? They're not just rumours! The more girls that Impress today, the better, if you ask me!"

"Even drudges?" Martonal asked with a wry smile.

"So long as they're _girl_ drudges... And if yesterday was any taste of things, Bennecka's probably better suited to the work than most of us. I can't imagine any of my sisters putting up with it, but I reckon _she_ could do it."

Martonal rolled his eyes. "Holders!"

"Hey, you're a Holder too!"

Ahead of them the Candidates slowed to a stop, and Martonal realised they were already right in front of the Hatching Grounds. The upper entrance and the dragon weyrs above it were fully lit by the dawn sun, the ledges thick with humming dragons, lifting their heads to the sky. As Martonal watched, the first bronze dragon bearing a Queen candidate flew overhead and into the comparative darkness of the Hatching Grounds, the tips of his broad wings almost touching the rock to either side. He was swiftly followed by a second, then a third, but then D'finter's voice pulled Martonal's attention back down to the ground again.

"Listen up! This is the _last_ time I'll be telling you this. Most of you will Impress. Some of you won't. I want you in place around those eggs _before_ they hatch, so I'll keep this short. Pick a spot, and stick to it. It doesn't matter whether you're standing right outside their shells, or on the far side of the Sands: Your dragons _will_ be able to find you and Impress to you. You'll know it for sure when it happens, and when it does, your dragons will name themselves to you. Tell us their names, and that way the rest of us will know for sure too! If you're not feeling hungry now, you will do then - your young dragon will be ravenous. Your first task will be to get them off the Sands back out here where we can feed them properly."

Martonal peered around Campen to check on where the butchery was taking place. Yes, there they were, just on the far side of the main entrance. A good two dozen of the weyrfolk were hard at work stripping a small pyramid of carcasses down to more manageable chunks of meat, their arms and aprons splattered with gore. It was hard to believe that the dragonets would need so much! Beyond them, he caught a glimpse of a small group of boys sitting on the dusty ground, supervised by the same number of dragonriders. Martonal looked back to D'finter again. Gallogren and his friends didn't matter, not now.

"If you need any assistance," D'finter was saying, "we'll be watching, ready to help you both out. Everything after that you can worry about later. We're just going to get the Hatching out the way first. But before you Impress, remember that dragonets are unpredictable. Don't interfere with the eggs as they hatch. Don't approach a dragonet when it's still getting itself free of its shell. And don't get in its way while it's looking for its rider. Keep calm, don't be afraid, and remember - your dragons are waiting for you in there. You've been chosen, Searched, out of hundreds and thousands of boys - and girls - of your age. _You_ are Candidate dragonriders for Igen Weyr. Now get in there, and Impress those dragons!"


	19. Chapter 19

If the humming of the dragons had seemed loud out in the Weyrbowl, it was as nothing to the noise that waited for the Candidates inside the Hatching Cavern. Thrumming and echoing, the reverberations of the dragons' welcome felt almost like a drum message being relayed right through Martonal's body. It was a deep sound, even from the throats of the greens, layered with higher overtones that somehow seemed to caress the spirit. A wordless, tuneless melody, that nonetheless perfectly conveyed the simple joy at new life that every dragon present was exulting in. There were perhaps forty or fifty of them perching on every inch of the ledges that lined the upper part of the cavern, with many more gathered just outside.

Lower down the cavern interior, dragon ledges gave way to tiered seating for the human spectators. The first four rows were packed solid, but even the more shadowed rows further back seemed to be fairly well filled. Wickerwork baskets of glows were suspended in a central cluster from the cavern's ceiling - less of a hazard to flying dragons than the more even distribution of ceiling lighting used in most Holds - and more glows lined the edges of the cavern's sandy floor, casting strong shadows from the nearer eggs and Saerlith's gleaming bulk, and more subtle patterns where the weyrwoman had raked her designs into the sands. The morning sunlight entering through the Cavern's upper entrance illuminated the gold egg perfectly, as well as those nearest to it, and would creep across the sands to warm the rest before too long. As for the eggs themselves, every single one of them was twitching wildly, and some were already covered in crazing and slowly growing cracks. Stepping slightly out of the line, Martonal paused for a moment simply to watch them move and to compose his thoughts. Which would be the first egg to hatch? He found himself thinking back to the Weyrlingmaster's parting words. _His dragon was waiting for him._ Willing the eggs on, he stood a little straighter, and started walking forwards again.

The leading Candidates were already forming loose groups in various spots on the Sands, and as if reluctant to disturb Erris's work, none strayed too close to the eggs themselves, instead standing at either the centre point or one of the spots lying directly between two groups of eggs. Had Erris meant them to do that? Martonal wondered.

Sildea came up beside him. "Oh, wow, Mar. I never thought they'd be so beautiful. All swirly, and shimmery, and flecked like Lexa's opal."

"They are, aren't they? Are there any you like the look of?"

"I like them all. How could I _possibly_ choose?"

"We're not meant to!" Albadril said. "Come on. Somewhere central's best, my Da says. Look, Campen and Gerrit are already heading over there."

While the boys were fairly evenly spread around the Sands, most of the girls who hadn't been Searched specifically for the new queen seemed to be hedging their bets, standing between the gold egg's slightly raised mound and the group of eggs closest to it near the back wall of the cavern. The runner girl Fru took one look at them and headed for the opposite side, close to the tiered Stands, and was soon joined by the three remaining Weyr lads. The last Candidates in were the drudge girl Bennecka and another girl from the Weyr. Bennecka stopped beside the group of eggs closest to the cavern entrance, the ones Martonal had looked at with Erris, while the other girl was eagerly welcomed by her friends from the Weyr. Martonal reached over to squeeze Sildea around the shoulders. "Good luck, Sil."

She smiled back at him. "You too, Mar."

Barely a moment later, the humming of the dragons seemed to throb and peak, and Saerlith gave voice to a low croon. The splitting of the first egg was a soft sound, and almost lost in the noise of the dragons' welcome - but in spite of that, the dragonet that hatched held every eye in the cavern as she emerged from her shell. She was a deep green in hue, and her motions were as awkward and fumbling as any newborn animal. But as she swung her head to and fro, searching for her lifelong partner, Martonal could see that there was also a fierce intelligence in her eyes. Her tongue poked out beyond her teeth, almost as if she was tasting the air, and she creeled loudly, distressed by her own hunger. Saerlith rumbled, and the dragonet's head tilted first one way, then the next, as if listening - and then she was lurching into motion, a motion mirrored by Albadril as he rushed forward to meet her. He slid to a heap in the sand at her feet, one arm reaching up to wrap itself around her long neck.

"Sath, Sath!" he cried.

There was a collective sigh of relief, and then cheering erupted from every mouth in the cavern, B'dril the loudest of all. He'd been holding his breath too, Martonal realised, waiting for that all important first Impression to occur.

"Huh," Gerrit said, "He was right about getting a green then!"

Sath's Impression seemed to be the cue for all the other eggs to start breaking. From one of the eggs behind Albadril - A'dril? A'bil? - another green poked her nose through her shell, and then the cheers and pointing of the audience made him turn to see the first bronze of the clutch bursting free of one of the eggs in the group nearest the queen egg. The queen egg itself was rocking violently. With each movement, the largest of the cracks in the queen egg's shell steadily grew, and then with a slow grace half the egg tumbled over, the golden occupant rolling onto the hot sand on her side. She straightened up, her serene reclined pose a mirror of Saerlith's, putting Martonal in mind of a feline he'd once seen trying to mask its embarrassment after falling off a wall.

"Oh Mar..."

Sildea's face when he turned to her was as wistful as he'd ever seen it. For the briefest of moments he allowed himself the small hope that B'dril had been wrong, that the gold might head her way, but resignation was already growing on her features. Martonal looked back to see one of the girls who'd been Searched for the queen egg helping the young gold onto four feet again.

"Nadille, Nadille!" Across the Sands, Ithabod was chanting the girl's name in delight. "What's her name?"

"Ferranth!"

Other names were called out in quick succession as more of the dragonets Impressed. The bronze, Juth, chose a beastcrafter from Keroon. Two more greens hatched from the group nearest the entrance, choosing Ithabod and Bennecka, while the one that had hatched after Albadril's Sath finally found her partner in one of the weyrbred girls standing near the remnants of the queen egg.

The next dragonet to hatch was the clutch's first blue. He shook his wings free of a few fragments of clinging eggshell, and lurched haltingly towards the central group of Candidates. Martonal couldn't help feeling a slight twinge of trepidation as the dragonet came towards him. Was this his dragon? It didn't have to be, but oh, he wanted so much to see it Impress safely. For a moment, the dragonet seemed to look right at him. _Find someone_ , Martonal willed at him. _If you want me, I'm here, but please just find someone!_

The dragonet looked away, clearly not interested in him after all. But there was purpose in his movements, and as he drew closer it soon became obvious who he wanted for his rider. Tears streamed down from Gerrit's eyes as he came face to face with his dragon. "He's Tegroth. Tegroth!"

As Martonal watched the new pair move slowly away towards the exit, the noise of the crowd changed, murmurs of concern joining the intermittent cheers. What had happened? He looked round, trying to figure out what the problem was.

"Over there!" Sildea said. " _She_ got a _blue_!"

Martonal followed Sildea's pointing finger towards the Weyr girl who'd been standing beside Fru. "Dragons choose. Guess he wanted a girl for a rider."

Campen laughed, but couldn't quite keep a hint of envy from colouring his voice. "It's half-half so far, you know. And not just greens! Maybe we need even _more_ girls on the Sands."

"Maybe you should have worn a dress?" Sildea joked back, before suddenly stumbling forward onto hands and knees as something nudged her from behind. "Ow! What did you do that for, Mar?"

Martonal grinned down at the little _something_ who'd set his cousin tumbling. "Not me, Sil. Not me. I think you should take a look."

"What do you me... Mazlith!"

He watched her face transform as Impression was made, happier than he'd ever felt before at her good fortune, and aching with the hope that he'd soon know it for himself. Watching her walk away, everything forgotten except for Mazlith, he knew there was nothing he wanted more. When he turned back to the eggs again, another green and two browns had hatched and begun their search for riders - no, one of the browns had already chosen Porrigor. How many eggs were left? Ten? Twelve? There was no time to count, because they were hatching all over now, another brown bursting free from his shell as Martonal watched. The egg he'd noticed the other day was still there, along with another two in the group closest to the entrance. Cheers from the crowd made him turn around in time to see one of the rejected queen candidates Impressing the green, and a weyrbred boy one of the browns.

Beside him, Campen cupped his hands to his mouth. "Well done, T'it!" he yelled. "Hooray for Brownrider T'it!" The other Candidates remaining picked up the chant, and it was soon echoed all around the Sands.

"What's his name, T'it?" the Weyrleader prompted over the shouting. "Dagath? Splendid!"

"I _promised_ Alby after dinner yesterday that I'd do that, if he wasn't here to do it himself," Campen whispered to Martonal. "Timolit was bragging all evening yesterday that he'd go down in the records as the great T'mo... but he'll have to live this down first!"

Martonal was about to reply when he saw another brown dragon, this one heading their way. "Campen, look!"

"Ohhh..."

The dragon stumbled closer, but Martonal closed his eyes, a wild sense of certainty filling him. That dragon was Campen's, not his. He turned, slowly, feeling the warmth of the rising sun moving across his skin. There were cheers from the crowds as Campen Impressed, and cries of hunger from the young brown dragonet beside him, but Martonal shut them all out.

He'd heard another egg cracking.

He opened his eyes again, using one hand to shield them as well as he could from the bright sunlight. It didn't make much of a difference. He could tell that there were two eggs left from that group, and that it was the one on the left that was breaking apart as he watched, but very little more than that. It might be the egg he'd noticed when Erris had shown him the clutch, but could just as likely be one of the others. There was so much debris on the sands that even his memory was of no help to him there. Martonal laughed in sudden delight as a large chunk of egg-shell flaked away, and the dark shape of a wet snout poked free. What did a shell matter? It was the dragon inside that counted, and this dragon was _his_.

The dragonet's snout briefly withdrew, then surged upwards again, the motion setting the entire shell crumbling into the sand. Standing shakily amidst the ruins of its egg, the dragonet formed a perfect silhouette - and then wings were spread for balance, the dawn light streaming through the gossamer-fine skin like stained glass. Martonal's heart lifted. He'd already thought the dragon perfect, but there'd never be another to match that stunning, impeccable colour. Just looking at the dragon made his whole hoped-for future seem almost inevitable... but what if he was wrong? What if he was just deluding himself?

"Look at me. Please look at me," he whispered, tears stinging in his eyes.

And the dragonet did.

It felt like gravity, like sunlight, like the gentle breezes blowing across the lake at dawn. The dragonet's eyes were whirling, like sun on the water, blue and green and gold all rippling together, and he was within it all, deep underwater, ascending fast, faster. Breaking the surface, breathing again, breathing for the first time in his life, blinded by the intensity of all that light and love and life. He could feel every nerve in his body in sudden overwhelming awareness, the aches in his nose and gums and hands and knees, the heat of the sands on the soles of his feet, the tickling as each grain slid uncomfortably between his still-damp toes and crusted on his feet with every step, the wetness of tears running freely down his face, of egg fluids sliding away from his newborn body, the pure physical relief of stretching wings and legs to their full extent for the first time in his life... but most of all, the gnawing hungriness within him. Well, that at least he'd expected.

M'tal slid to a halt in front of his dragon. His dragon, _his dragon!_

 _You are M'tal? Then I am Rhynath._

"Rhynath..."

The name suited his dragon _perfectly_. M'tal reached out, caressing the right spot behind Rhynath's headknobs almost instinctively, while the dragon nuzzled his shoulder. _Two halves of a whole_ , the Harpers sang, or, _one spirit, ne'er divided_ , but that barely scratched the surface. They were more than mere mirrors of each other: they were contrast, complement, completion... and more than that, too. He could scarcely make sense of it all, but there was no rush; they had Turns and Turns ahead of them for that. So much newness and confusion for them both, but Rhynath was coping with it all so admirably! And in spite of the newborn simplicity of the dragon's thoughts, there were depths to Rhynath's mind that M'tal could almost feel, depths that sang within his heart and mind. Rhynath was the best of him, and oh, _how_ could he have lived so long never knowing that this, _this_ was what love really was? How could he ever possibly have wanted to _not_ walk this path, to live the life that had brought him to Rhynath, and Rhynath to him?

 _There's a path there too, M'tal. I think it has_ food _at the end of it._

"Food, yes. That first." _And I'm sorry, Rhynath. We can hurry if you like._

 _Please, yes!_

 _Right. Then let's go._

Man and dragon left the Hatching Sands together, just as they and their fellows were always meant to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that's all you're going to get, at least as far as this part of the story goes. Thank you very much for sticking with me, and for putting up with my apalling penchant for cliffhangers. ;-) As for the rest of the author's note, you only need to read on if you're one of those interested in...
> 
> A little bit of something vaguely resembling an epilogue
> 
> This story ends where it does, but life, as always, goes on.
> 
> Except when it stops, abruptly and unexpectedly.
> 
> But I'm getting ahead of myself there, aren't I?
> 
> So, what happens next? And what happens further down the line?
> 
> First of all, Gallogren and his cronies. Well, they get booted out of the Weyr and back to their homes right after the hatching - Gallogren too, who is fostered with relatives at South Telgar Hold. Nothing much is heard of them for quite some time, but it's fair to say that Gallogren's character is not improved by his change in circumstances.
> 
> How about E'gall? Weyrleader T'ray wasn't sure what to do about him, but he acceded to B'dril's request to transfer the young man into his own wing. So much for B'dril not being E'gall's wingleader, eh? It takes a couple of years, but he gets some sense hammered into him, and turns out to be quite a decent underneath. The potential was always there, just rather deeply buried. E'gall and M'tal eventually become very good friends.
> 
> B'dril becomes Weyrleader the next time Ackla's queen rises. T'ray is one of the few who are unhappy about it. Fru is another, but she soon turns her attentions elsewhere.
> 
> Saerlith never rises again, but she and Erris remain a much loved and respected part of the Igen Weyr community for the rest of their days. They have many Turns of being wise and/or exasperating ahead of them, depending on who you ask. Erris passes on her knowledge of 'leaning' on others (did you catch her doing it? she and I both tried to be subtle about it...) to an Istan queenrider who spends a Turn at Igen for just that training.
> 
> What about the Weyrlings, then? What's in store for them? The next ten years are packed full with lots of hard work, laughs, love, learning and more hard work again. Good times! M'tal falls in love. Sildea thrives. C'pen adjusts to Weyr morals quicker than he'd have thought possible. Sath turns out to be even more incorrigible than A'bil. G'rit will one day be Weyrlingmaster. Oh, you wanted to know what colour Rhynath is, do you? Tough luck. I didn't work so hard at avoiding even gendered pronouns to let it slip here... Put it down to artistic choice on my part, and rest assured, YOU know the answer to that question anyway. It's part of why I wrote this story in the first place - to show my own take on what it takes to be Searched, and that there's a heck of a lot more to Impression itself than merely the colour of your dragon's hide.
> 
> If I ever write the sequel, it'll take place about 14 years after Rhynath's hatching. The Conclave has just confirmed a new Lord Holder, and trouble is brewing in the Holds. With Threadfall a fading memory, what need have the autonomous Weyrs for heroics? And a broken rider who's already learned the ultimate price of heroism will look for answers in a dragon's dying words.
> 
> Yes, you know exactly what I mean to have happened by that, don't you? And no, I'm not a nice author, am I? But I do love reviews, even if half of you probably want to hit me with something right now...


End file.
